


The Conspirator's Gift

by kaydeefalls



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Ensemble Cast, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Murder Mystery, Pastiche, Plotty, Slow Burn, medieval warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-08 19:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 80,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: Medieval mystery AU. In the aftermath of a bloody siege during the 12th-century English Anarchy, the monk Henry and tradesman Erik discover evidence of murder: one corpse too many hidden among the fallen rebels. To see justice done, Erik must tread carefully through the conflicting and treacherous loyalties of civil war, as well as the potentially dangerous schemes of the enigmatic young Lord Xavier.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a loving pastiche of the Cadfael series by Ellis Peters, and in particular borrows the general plot of "One Corpse Too Many"; absolutely no knowledge of that canon necessary. It is a murder mystery, and does contain non-graphic depictions of death (no major characters) and canon-typical X-Men violence.
> 
> Written for the X-Men Big Bang. GORGEOUS art by **muddled-mayhem** [here](https://muddled-mayhem.tumblr.com/post/188166258206/heres-my-contribution-to-the-2019-x-men-big)! Huge thanks to **ireliss**, **msilverstar**, and **ienablu** for the betas, because man, sometimes it takes a village.
> 
> This fic is complete! I'll be posting one chapter per day until it's all up.

August of the year 1138 in England was stiflingly hot, the sort of thick, oppressive heat that felt as though a storm were perpetually looming just at the horizon. It put Erik in mind of his years spent in the Holy Land, the sun baking into his skin and searing armor and weaponry until every sword burned like the wrong end of a poker. That had been a dry heat, though, rasping at the lungs; summer here was heavy and damp.

But the acrid smoke and stink of blood hanging over the besieged town of Shrewsbury recalled the Crusades all too well.

"They say the king will put an end to the siege at first light," Brother Henry said, stirring some sharp-smelling ointment over the little brazier in his workshop in the abbey herbarium. Even with that small flame he had going, it was still cooler here in the shade among the herbs than without. "God willing, it will come to a quick end, one way or the other."

Erik leaned back against the bench with a smirk. "That's somewhat bloody-minded for a monk, isn't it?"

"Pragmatic, rather," Henry retorted. The young monk had become accustomed to Erik's sardonic sense of humor these past few years. "If there must be killing, better make a clean end of it so that we can start to heal and rebuild." He gave his concoction a sniff, considered, then plucked a few leaves of yarrow and stirred them in. "What's certain is they'll have need of my medicines by nightfall tomorrow, so I'd best make proper shift of it. King's men or Empress's, they all bleed the same red."

"And you have no opinions as to their cause? You _are_ an Englishman yourself, after all, even cloistered away in here."

Henry shook his head in distaste. "I can hardly think well of any nobleman who would willingly rip their own lands apart just for the sake of a crown. What will it gain either of them in the end? But then, I suppose I wouldn't know, innocent as I am of such worldly matters." He rolled his eyes as he said it. Though Henry had been brought to the church as a child oblate, and grown to manhood within this abbey, he had an abundance of both intelligence and curiosity, and could hardly be called ignorant of the wider world. But he was ultimately far more interested in his plants and potions than in politics. 

"Anyway," Henry went on, "_you_ were the soldier, once. I can scarce believe you don't have your own sympathies." He leaned back on his haunches and looked up at Erik over his brazier. "The Empress is also one of God's Gifted, after all."

As were both Henry and Erik, the original source of their unexpected friendship. Those born or grown into unusual and diverse talents, impossible to quantify by any normal human standard. Gifted by God, said the Church, and so they were known here in Christendom; the Jews called them _mevurachim_, and the Saracens had their own name for them as well. But Gifted was a good enough term for Erik. Some of these Gifts were outwardly physical in nature, like Henry's strange and flexible feet; others, like Erik's affinity for metal, manifested in more subtle ways. For the most part, they were considered blessings, minor miracles.

But those without Gifts were often inclined to fear them, all the same. When the old king had died, three years earlier, he had left his daughter Emma as his only heir. The peerage of England thought it bad enough to have a woman rule; but such a strange woman as the Empress Emma?

Some took her Gifts as a sign from God that she was, in truth, the rightful Queen of England. And indeed her ability to change her body into glittering diamond seemed fittingly regal. But she also had the ability to whisper directly into men's minds, to read their thoughts as though they were nothing more than lines on vellum. That sort of Gift would make anyone nervous. So when the old king died, his un-Gifted nephew had seen an opportunity and taken it, swiftly and decisively. With the support of half the noble houses of England and the Church's blessing, he had marched upon Westminster and been anointed King Anthony Stark of England while the self-styled Empress Emma was still far across the sea in her husband's lands in Normandy. To his credit, King Anthony was said to be both intelligent and chivalrous, with a temper that flared hot but just as quickly burned back out into good humor. Perhaps he might even have been a good ruler, were he given the chance. But the Empress was not one to go down without a fight: her claim on the throne was clearly valid, and she still had a strong base of support in the north and west of the country.

And so the civil war dragged on, and had finally reached this particular corner of Shropshire.

Shrewsbury castle held for the Empress, and had survived a month now under siege from the King himself. But every battle has its breaking point, and Shrewsbury's fate would soon be decided, one way or the other.

Erik closed his eyes against Brother Henry's curious gaze, and breathed in the thick, pleasant scents of the herbs and ointments. It was quiet here, within the abbey walls. He'd come to appreciate the slower pace of peace. He should have known it couldn't last. "I hold for neither King nor Empress," he said. "I wish them both well away from here. They can rule or they can rot, it makes no difference to me. So long as they have done with this fratricidal folly and leave us in peace."

"I don't know that peace is an option," Henry remarked with a sigh. "Not for some time yet."

Erik grunted in agreement and opened his eyes again, looking out the open door to the gardens beyond this little hut. "At least you've got your work to occupy your time. With the town under siege and the King's army swarming about the place, I've little and less to do with each passing day."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "Really? With your touch with metal, I'd have thought that soldiers from both camps would be breaking down your door with weapons needing mending."

"They've got their own armorers for that, and the town has its own blacksmith. No reason they should come my way." Erik had once made his living crafting swords and pikes himself, back in Syria, but he rarely worked with weapons these days. He preferred finer craftsmanship, with any form of metal -- iron and steel, yes, but also bronze or silver, and even some very occasional work with gold. He kept his shop and home in the Foregate leading up to the town, as one of the abbey's tenants, and did a respectable business with both the Church and the townspeople. "Strangely enough, few come looking for decorative metalwork in the middle of a siege."

"Perhaps not," Henry said. "That explains why you're here pestering me instead, I suppose. You know, if you're bored, I could use an extra hand in the gardens today. They say idle hands make for the Devil's work."

Erik chuckled. "Subtle, Henry. Haven't they given you a new assistant yet? It's been months since your last lad hared off. Wasn't he still a novice?"

"Yes, and thought better of taking his vows, so now he's off fighting for the King down in the south somewhere," Henry grumbled. "And I'd just got him broken in properly, too. The Prior did give me a new boy to help with the summer harvest -- just this week, in fact. But he's too young and slight for the heavier digging." Henry was still a young man himself at twenty-three, but the Abbot had seen his value from the start, and placed him here in the herbarium where he could tinker and brew up medicines to his heart's content. "There, you can see him out by the cabbages."

Erik peered out, and sure enough, a lad of perhaps thirteen or fourteen years was indeed doing his best to shovel compost into the cabbage crop. He had sandy brown hair that curled at his temples, and working in the sun had burned a pink gloss into his fair skin. "He does look young for a novice." 

"Oh, he's no novice, or at least not yet. He was orphaned, so his aunt brought him in to be trained as a lay servant, a year's endowment with him. He goes to school with the other boys, and I suppose he might yet decide to take vows himself, if the life suits him, but there's years yet before he needs to make that choice. But he doesn't mind working hard, and God knows I can use any help I can get right now."

Erik gave Henry a sidelong glance. "You could do the heaviest work yourself, if you wanted to spare him." He didn't look it, skinny as he was, but Henry's Gift granted him strength far surpassing that of ordinary men.

"I meant to," Henry admitted, glancing around his workshop with a frown. "But I've other work to attend to that takes precedence. Any man can dig and harvest, if shown how, but it takes a deal more time and study to tend to my herbs and medicines. The boy's a quick learner, but it's far too early for him to manage those."

"And I'm little help to you there, either. But I suppose I can manage a bit of gardening." Erik got to his feet with a sigh, but really, he'd never been inclined toward idleness. And he didn't mind working under the sun. "I can even teach him how to handle a sickle, if it comes to that."

Henry covered his relief poorly. "If you're sure you don't mind…?"

"Not at all. What's most urgent, after the cabbages?"

Brother Henry directed him toward the pease field, which sloped down toward the brook, and supplied Erik with the necessary tools. Some short time later, after Erik had gotten into the flow of the harvest, Henry reappeared again with his young assistant in tow.

"Erik, this is Bobby Drake, consider him your apprentice for the afternoon. And Bobby, this is Erik Lehnsherr. He's been kind enough to agree to help us today, and he's a metalworker normally, so he knows his way around a sickle. He'll show you how it's done. I'll come and fetch you when it's time to clean up for Vespers."

And he was off again just as abruptly. Young Bobby stared after him for a moment, nonplussed.

"You'll get used to it," Erik told him. "Brother Henry is far better with plants than with people."

"So I'm learning," Bobby said. "But he's kind enough, in his way." The boy turned his ice-blue eyes on Erik instead, studying him with interest. "You're not a monk."

"Hardly," Erik agreed drily. He wasn't even a Christian, but that explanation could wait for another time, if ever. "But I _am_ a tenant of the abbey, and have a friend or two among the brothers. Henry is one such. So here we are." He handed Bobby the spare sickle. "Have you used one of these before?"

Bobby blinked at him, then at the tool in his hand. He took it cautiously. "No, but I've seen them used. I can learn."

And so he did, and quickly, too, with a lithe strength despite his youth. But it was clear that he'd never worked a field before. A town lad, perhaps. That might explain why his aunt had packed him off to the abbey, for safety in this time of civil strife. Particularly if any of his kin had partisan leanings. Erik noticed that Bobby's gaze often flickered up across the abbey's grounds and roofs, toward Shrewsbury's battered castle towers. Small wonder that it should. The smoke hung like a pall over the whole shire.

Though Erik was content to keep his own counsel, Bobby was clearly cut from a different cloth. Once he'd got the hang of the sickle, and had worked for some minutes in silence, he began trying to prod Erik into conversation. "Have you any kin in the town, Master Lehnsherr?"

"Just Erik is fine. And no."

Bobby waited some moments, as though expecting further response, and Erik sighed. Well, the lad _was_ still trying to get a sense of his new situation. Erik supposed it couldn't hurt to indulge him.

"I'm not English by birth," he said, relenting. "I came here about four years ago."

Bobby grinned, happy to have provoked a reply. "I thought not! Your name sounds foreign, and I can't place your accent. Where are you from?"

The boy couldn't know the unpleasant memories stirred by his simple question, so Erik kept his tone brisk and dismissive. "I was born in Cologne, but I lived many years in the East."

"In the East -- in the Holy Land?" The boy's eyes lit up. "Were you a Crusader?"

"No," Erik said shortly, focusing on the smooth heft of his sickle as it cut through the stalks of pease. Metal was strong and impartial. It knew of no earthly concerns. "I was too young."

If it hardly scratched the surface of the full tale, at least it was not a lie. And it seemed to resonate with Bobby, who nodded thoughtfully. "I know what it's like to be thought too young to fight."

Perhaps another man might have laughed, but Erik's own childhood had been stripped from him far too young. He would not wish it on any other. "Whoever told you so was right. Let the men grown do the fighting, boy. You'll have your turn at it all too soon."

Bobby scowled at that, hacking haphazardly with his own sickle. "Not soon enough! They say the castle can't hold much longer -- that it might even fall tomorrow."

"If not tomorrow, then not long after," Erik agreed. "I've seen enough sieges in my time to know the signs. It's admirable enough that they lasted so long, but it's been too long without respite, reinforcements, or any hope of rescue, and the people of the town begin to grow fractious. If the king throws all his strength at them in one bloody thrust, they cannot hold."

"But it isn't fair!" Bobby burst out, his eyes flashing fire for a moment. "They're only upholding their sworn oaths to the Empress! The old king named Emma his heir and had all his barons swear fealty. She was his only living child, she _should_ be queen! And yet when Count Stark seized the throne and had himself crowned, half of them forgot their oaths and went trotting off like dogs to their new master. Where is the honor or justice in that? To betray their rightful monarch just because she's a woman -- and Gifted."

The bitterness in that one final word was telling. Erik slowly lowered his sickle while he studied the boy anew, more intently than before. To all appearances, Bobby was an ordinary English boy, likely of mixed Saxon and Norman blood like many in these parts -- and perhaps some Welsh as well, this close to the border. He was beginning to grow coltish as boys do in their teenage years, hinting that he might be a middling tall man one day; his voice was still high and pure, not yet cracking even when he spoke in passionate anger. Thirteen at most, Erik judged. About the age that many of the Gifted first show signs of it. 

"People are always inclined to fear that which they do not understand," Erik said with deliberation. "And the Empress is a distant figurehead. Even were she more beloved, her champion here in Shrewsbury is not. Lord Marko has not been a popular sheriff in this shire. Many of the townsfolk would see King Anthony as a liberator, should his army win the day, disregarding any higher allegiances."

The sheriff was the primary secular authority in the town, upholding the law and maintaining order within the whole of the shire. For a borderland like Shropshire, that also could mean defending against any incursions from the Welsh. Lord Cain Marko ruled the garrison with an iron fist and uncommon brutality, and was far more concerned with protecting the rights and property of his particular friends among the nobility than with the common folk. Few would miss the man if he fell in battle tomorrow. From the face Bobby was now pulling, he agreed with that much, at least.

"And you should be wary of speaking so freely before a stranger, even outside of the town," Erik continued, not unkindly. "The abbey gates are open to all, and all manner of men pass through them. In times such as these, some try to buy favor by carrying tales. Best keep your thoughts safe in your own head -- although, in fairness," he added with the barest hint of a smile, thinking of the Empress's particular Gifts, "I suppose they may not be safe even there."

Bobby stared at him a moment, eyes wide. "I didn't think -- the monks are all -- but you're no soldier, are you?"

Erik sighed. There was no mistaking the boy's youth and relative innocence now. "Not anymore. And I take no sides in this fight. Bobby, you have nothing to fear from me, or from Brother Henry." With a gesture, he tugged at the iron of Bobby's sickle and gently pulled it out of the startled boy's hands, letting it hover lightly in the air between them.

"_Oh,_" Bobby breathed. "You...you're one of the Gifted, aren't you?" His face was far too open -- it was easy to watch him put the pieces together. "And Brother Henry as well? I couldn't help but notice his feet, but I wasn't sure…"

"His feet, yes." Hard to miss them, since Henry had long since given up on the usual monastic sandals and simply went about barefoot whenever the weather permitted. "And he's far stronger than a normal man, though that isn't so obvious to the eye. He was given to the abbey when he was scarcely more than a babe, likely by parents who were all too relieved to be rid of him. Luckily for him, the Benedictines are a tolerant sort, since Saint Benedict himself was said to be Gifted."

"So I've been told," Bobby said, still gaping at the floating sickle. "It was part of why -- why my aunt sent me here." His eyes darkened somewhat. "To keep me _safe_."

"As safe as any, in such troubled times," Erik said quietly. "Don't curse it too strongly. You've been given a chance to reflect, and to do some growing up of your own. Use it while you can. And in the meantime," he added, more briskly, "Henry won't thank me if we leave his field only halfway harvested." He waved a hand, and the sickle dropped into the grass at Bobby's feet, blade pointed carefully away where it would do him no harm.

He didn't ask the boy if he himself was indeed Gifted. Let the lad open up in his own time. There were others of their kind here at the abbey who would be better at guiding him than Erik, anyway, especially if he had only recently come into his Gift. Erik thought perhaps he might drop a word in Brother Armando's ear before returning to his own home for the night.

But first, pease.

* * *

The king's siege camp sprawled across the entire land approach to Shrewsbury Castle Foregate. That late afternoon, as Erik and Bobby were finishing up their harvest in the abbey fields, a lady approached the main guard at the entrance to the camp, flanked by her own men. When she told the guards that she was here to offer up her family's fealty and services to the king, one immediately took off in search of some higher personage. It could not have been unusual, these past weeks, for various minor local lords to come pledging their troth; but lords, surely, most of them were. Far fewer ladies. She held herself with quiet dignity, as befitted her rank, and kept her chin tilted high, clearly the equal of any man in this company.

The guard returned with another soldier -- an officer, as evident both in the fineness of his dress and the confident authority he wore like a cloak. His dark eyes studied her with approval; though she was past the first bloom of youth, her beauty had matured into a handsome elegance. She did not blush, but matched his frank appreciation with her own. He cut a fine figure of a man.

"Captain Remy LeBeau, at your service," he said, bowing over her hand. "And a pleasure indeed it would be to serve you, my lady. You seek audience with the king?"

"Yes," she said coolly. "My name is Moira MacTaggert. My father, whom we buried just two months past, was always King Anthony's man. I come to offer the fealty of my house in his place."

Remy's eyes softened in sympathy. "Madam, I grieve to hear of your loss. May his memory be a blessing to you. Of course I will bring you to the king." He glanced at her small but sturdy entourage. "Your men shall be made comfortable here while they wait."

Moira agreed, having expected no less, and took Remy's proffered arm to be escorted through the camp toward the king's pavilion. 

"Where do your family's lands lie?" Remy asked, perhaps to distract her from the stares of the soldiers as they passed. It was unnecessary; she paid them no heed.

"In the northeastern part of the shire, near to the border with Staffordshire," she replied. "We have been on the road since early this morning, and came directly here upon our arrival. I confess I have hardly even taken thought to my own lodgings for the night! I have not been to Shrewsbury myself since I was a child, though my father made the trip often before he took ill."

Remy gave her a smile, quick to divert her from the renewed press of grief. "Well, we can't have that! I will make sure that the king sees you quickly, so that you will still be able to make provisions for your party before nightfall. Have you friends nearby?"

Moira sighed and shook her head. "None so close, unfortunately. But I hoped to stay at the abbey guest house -- the Benedictines are always kind to travelers in need. I believe it is not too far from here. Has it been spared the fighting?"

"Just across the river, and quite safe," Remy assured her. "I can arrange a boat to carry you once your business here is concluded. You will find no better lodgings than there. Why, I'm sure you'll even get there in time for the evening service, should you wish to attend."

"Yes," Moira said seriously. "There is much to pray for tonight."

Remy left her just outside the king's tent, promising that he would return shortly. It seemed that Moira was not the only petitioner this afternoon. Another man waited there, likely another local lord. He appeared about her own age, which was close to thirty, lightly built and boyishly handsome, with bright blue eyes that were alight with intelligence. He gave her a pleasant smile, then exchanged a nod with Remy as he passed.

"I have not forgotten you, either!" Remy told him with a grin. With one last lingering look back at Moira, he vanished inside.

* * *

Inside the tent, King Anthony was conferring with his chief advisors: Obadiah Stane, who led his army, and James Rhodes, the captain of the Flemish mercenaries hired to help Anthony secure his crown.

"You must set an example here," Stane was saying, as Remy returned to his post with a quick bow. Stane had long been a friend to the Stark family, and had proven a ruthless and effective general in wartime. "I know it's in your nature to forgive, and to favor penitents with generosity, but you cannot afford to be so chivalrous tomorrow. The barons in the north have no respect for mercy, only strength. It's time to strike terror."

Anthony poured himself a fresh flagon of wine and gave Stane a sardonic smile. "I might actually need to take the castle first. Hard to strike terror from a position of retreat. Although, if anyone could, Obadiah--"

"Your Grace may have your jest, of course," Stane said drily. "But the point stands."

Anthony waved a flippant hand. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not in a forgiving mood. Four weeks we've been stuck here, enduring taunts from the castle walls, while the Earl of Chester consolidates power in the north and the Welsh princes nip at our borders. I mean to have done with it." 

"Let the soldiers taunt us; we have bigger fish to fry, and they'll not have breath enough for insults come dawn," Rhodes remarked, unflappable as always. Despite or perhaps due to being a soldier for hire, he tended to be the voice of moderation. "It's Marko and Holme that we need to make examples of, not the commons of the garrison."

And in fairness, left to his own devices, the king would have been happy enough to take his revenge solely on those two leaders of the resistance -- Cain Marko as its liege lord, who had declared and held this castle for the Empress; and the strongest of Marko's vassal lords, Dirk Holme, who had brought with him the majority of the castle garrison. So just those two men, in a nice big public execution, and Anthony would be perfectly content to conclude his business with Shrewsbury.

"Your Grace may do as you will," Stane said, with a dark glance toward Rhodes, "but I would recommend the harshest form of justice for all. Certainly Marko would not hesitate to do as much, should your positions be reversed; the man wouldn't spit on his own mother if she were on fire. Brutality is the only language men like that understand. This resistance must be stamped out entirely, or you may leave sparks untended that will catch the whole land aflame against you."

Anthony cordially disliked heavy-handed metaphors, but he knew the argument had merit.

"We'll discuss this further tonight," he said. He needed a great deal more wine for such heavy thoughts. In the meantime: "I have a petitioner waiting, don't I?" Anthony waved an imperious hand at Remy LeBeau, who was still waiting patiently by the entrance. "Bring him in!"

Remy was Stane's favored lieutenant, and popular among all the King's command for both his prowess on the field and his sly good humor; his position of trust permitted him to hesitate before obeying. "Your Grace, you have another visitor as well," Remy said. "A lady. She gives her name as Moira MacTaggert, and says that her recently deceased father was ever your loyal subject. The hour grows late -- perhaps you might see her first, so that she may safely find lodging before evening?"

"A lady, eh?" Anthony grinned. "And pretty, I'll wager, for Remy to stand her champion." Remy inclined his head with a faint smile. "By all means, ladies first."

The lady in question was indeed quite lovely, a slender vision in dark mourning dress, with pale cheeks and soft chestnut hair beneath her wimple. She did not seem at all intimidated by the royal presence, making her reverence and pledging her fealty with grave self-assurance. Anthony admired her forthrightness as well as her pretty face. Her lands were modest, and she had few knights and men-at-arms to offer to his service, but she made a thorough and honest accounting of all, and accepted his condolences on the loss of her father with grace and without any simpering. And she was bluntly honest on one further point: "You should also know, Your Grace, that I have a younger brother who does not hold faith with our family, though by rights it should be he who stands here in my place. He and our father quarrelled bitterly over it, and Father cut him off when he left to fight with the Empress." Color rose in her cheeks as she said it, perhaps in shame, but she kept her chin up and did not waver. "This was over two years ago. I do not know where he is now. It's possible he is here in Shrewsbury; Lord Holme was known to our family, and Kevin -- my brother -- he counts his friends among Holme's knights. He may well have come here. But I don't know. I hope you will not judge my house's loyalty by his actions, for he does not speak for us."

"Madam," Anthony said, with a grim smile, "believe me, I know what it is to be disappointed in one's family. Never fear; I accept your fealty with all my heart, and thank you heartily for it." He kissed her cheek, cousinly, which she accepted demurely. Strange that so handsome and self-assured a lady should yet be unmarried, at her age; but perhaps her father's extended illness had kept her at home. Well, there was more than one reason for a woman such as this to attend a king. She might find far better marriage prospects here among his officers than in her quiet and lonely corner of the shire. Assuming they survived the coming battle!

* * *

The second petitioner had been passing the time pleasantly enough with the guards, keeping one ear pricked to the goings-on within the tent. It was not difficult to hear all that transpired from where he waited just outside. Once Moira had been escorted away, the charming Remy LeBeau told him he need wait only a brief moment longer, and ducked back inside.

"So who do we have next?" Anthony asked, settling back into his chair.

"A lord Charles Xavier of Maesbury," Remy said. "Shall I bring him in?"

The king glanced at Stane. "Xavier? That sounds familiar."

"There was a Brian Xavier who married the sister of the Earl of Chester," Stane said consideringly. "I do recall that his lands included the manor of Maesbury. That was thirty years ago or more, though. Likely this would be their son, which would make him cousin to the current Earl."

"Nathaniel Essex of Chester is the Empress's ally." And a real thorn in Anthony's side, too, with a shrewd eye toward expanding his own lands. Borders of petty earldoms become malleable in times of civil strife.

"Yes," Remy agreed, "and last week I would have said that Maesbury, like much of this shire, held strong for the Empress. Moreover, Xavier is said to be betrothed from childhood to the daughter of Dirk Holme, who is second in command to Marko here in Shrewsbury."

At this point, Rhodes took an interest in the conversation, his head coming up sharply. "Holme's daughter? You know, I've heard rumors that he never had a chance to send her away out of the castle before we closed the way north. She's said to still be within the town walls. _She_ could certainly prove valuable, if found. And now her intended husband seeks audience? Your Grace, I suggest that this might be an interesting meeting to take."

Anthony smiled to himself. A little palace intrigue always did soothe his soul. "Well, there's only one way to find out. Remy, send the man in."

Finally summoned, the ever-patient petitioner stepped within the tent and made his reverence to the king. For a few brief moments, he studied Anthony's face with clear blue eyes; then he smiled faintly, as though having reached some sort of conclusion. "Your Grace," he said, almost smoothly enough to cover the initial hesitation, "I am Charles Xavier of Maesbury, and I and all I hold are yours to command." He made a brisk listing of the men he could provide for the king's service and their qualifications, then settled to await his sovereign's response.

Anthony regarded him coolly. "Your name we know. Also that you are close kin to the Earl of Chester, who broke faith with us and stirs dissension in the north. Also that you formerly kept company with Lords Marko and Holme, who now hold Shrewsbury against us. So tell me, my lord Xavier: whence comes this change of heart? And so belatedly, at that? We have been encamped here for a full month. You have had ample time to pledge your allegiance, yet no word until now, on the eve of battle. Rather late in the game, wouldn't you say?"

If he expected Xavier to become uneasy at this unflattering assessment, he was to be disappointed. Xavier simply nodded, as though in full agreement. "All fair questions, my liege. Yes, my cousin Nathaniel is now Earl of Chester, and I was raised to count those men and their families as my peers and friends. Some better friends than others, perhaps--" His lips twitched. "--but I was brought up to respect and honor them nonetheless." He paused, perhaps considering his words. "Your Grace, I have only recently come into my lands, and had not yet sworn fealty to any. You are said to be a fair-minded man. You must appreciate that the choice deserves some careful consideration. The Empress Emma has an honest claim to the throne. It is hard to call anyone a traitor for choosing to support her -- though breaking oaths already sworn are another matter." His gaze turned distant for a moment, then refocused. "I have thought long and hard on my choice of fealty, and if it took me overlong to reach a decision, so be it. Once made, I will not be swayed. I am here now. Those who hasten to your side at the least breath of wind," he added, "may be as easily blown loose again at another."

Anthony barked out a laugh. "You're telling me!" His eyes narrowed as he considered the man before him. "Well, you're certainly bold enough. But who's to say you won't retreat back into your former alliances the moment Emma draws near again? She's bound to have a good day eventually."

"So she is, and I don't expect you to take me at my word. I shall simply have to prove myself in time. Consider me on probation, if you will." Xavier glanced to the king's advisors, then back to Anthony. "And if you're to know the worst of me, sire, before you accept my allegiance, then I should also tell you: I am Gifted, like the Empress herself and many of her party."

The king shrugged. "And several of my own, as well. I bear no malice towards those with God's Gifts. Some small measure of envy, perhaps," his lips twisting in a mischievous smile, "but no malice. What is your particular Gift, pray tell?"

Xavier held his gaze steadily. "Much the same as the Empress's, though I have no doubt that she is the more powerful. I'm a telepath, able to hear men's thoughts."

Surely he anticipated the reactions that followed. Rhodes took a warning step forward, hand going to the hilt of his sword; Remy paled noticeably; and Stane broke in with an outraged, "Your Grace, you must dismiss him at once!" Xavier did not so much as flinch. His face seemed open, guileless; yet surely he could make himself so appear, if he spoke the truth.

If he spoke the truth. Anthony raised a hand to silence his captains' objections, continuing to regard Xavier thoughtfully. The king wasn't frightened by his cousin Emma's Gifts, any more than he was intimidated by her intelligence or physical beauty. Her supernatural abilities were simply weapons in her formidable arsenal, to be considered and countered like any others. And Anthony was a clever man in his own right. No, if this Charles Xavier had intended to spy on him while outwardly currying favor, it would have been simple enough to just keep his Gift a secret. Somewhat of a risk, perhaps; he was known to some here, who might well know of his abilities and confide them to the king. But if he were anywhere near as powerful as Emma, he would be able to wipe any doubts away from Anthony's mind; the fact that he had not done so indicated either that his Gift was weak enough to pose a minimal threat, or that he indeed came here in honest earnest.

"You were right to disclose this to us," Anthony said. "And you will understand if it takes some time to earn our trust. This would be true even if you did not have such...uniquely dangerous Gifts, of course."

"Of course," Xavier agreed calmly. "I expected no less."

Anthony considered the matter. "You were in close confidence with Cain Marko and Dirk Holme, once."

Xavier hesitated. "Our families were close. But I have not seen or spoken with either since my father's funeral, nearly two years ago now. I do not pretend to have insight into their current plans."

"And a unique _insight_ you might have, indeed," Anthony murmured, mostly to himself. A pity he could not yet trust the man enough to ask him to listen in on his enemies' council this night. But there were limits to such Gifts; no telling how close Xavier would need to be in order to truly read their thoughts. Some with similar abilities needed to be physically touching a person in order to hear anything at all. "But I have been told that you are betrothed to Holme's only daughter."

"Raven?" Xavier gave a rueful chuckle. "Well, I certainly was, once. A childhood betrothal made by our parents. But it's been years since I saw the girl, and with the current state of affairs as it stands, I don't rightly know if the bargain still holds."

Anthony held his eyes deliberately. "Marko's family is fled, but Raven Holme is said to be hiding within the town walls. You know her father, you know the family and their friends -- you might yet have some valuable insight, as you put it, into where they might be sheltering her. If you can indeed hear my thoughts, then you will know that I mean the girl no harm. But it would not be displeasing," he added, "to have such a valuable lady in our safekeeping."

Even without his telepathy, it was clear that Charles Xavier was quick-witted. He tilted his head ever so slightly; his only acknowledgment that this task might well either secure or lose him royal favor. "I do wish to see her safely delivered from the battlefield," he said quietly. "This, too, was part of my intent in coming to Shrewsbury."

Perhaps he even meant it sincerely! After all, those two would have known one another from childhood. He should at least have a fondness for the girl. "Very well," Anthony said. "You may remain in attendance, though we have no immediate work for you. If I do need to call upon you, where would we find you?"

"If I may," Xavier said, "I intend to seek lodging in the abbey guest house."

* * *

It was Erik's habit to sup with the abbey porter in his gatehouse lodge at least once a week, when he took his turn acting as lay porter during the evening services as part of his tenancy agreement with the abbey. Brother Armando enjoyed the company, and Erik enjoyed a meal he didn't have to prepare for himself. They made a strange pair in this English town, the Moorish monk and the German metalworker. Perhaps that was why they remained friends: in defiance of all who looked askance at such obvious outsiders.

The truth of the matter was that they had met long before either arrived in England, as chance companions on the road to Constantinople. Erik had just begun in earnest his hunt for the crusader known as Sebastian Shaw, and Armando was cheerfully roaming the world in search of purpose -- or, failing that, at least interesting diversion. In the end, Armando had proven an invaluable ally. He had helped Erik defeat Shaw, and unexpectedly found his true vocation along the way. It was only natural, afterwards, that Erik should accompany his friend to his chosen haven here at the abbey. And, having no home to return to and no further purpose of his own to fulfill, Erik had settled here as well -- with no intention of taking vows himself, of course. Shrewsbury was as good a place as any to work and live in peace.

The smoky haze hanging over the town might now argue otherwise.

"I suppose you'll be the first to cry the news tomorrow," Erik remarked, looking out from the gatehouse. The abbey Foregate was normally busy enough at this time of evening -- the more devout amongst the laity (the secular townsfolk) returning from the Vespers services, the rest finishing up their business about either town or fields and returning to their homes for supper. But tonight it was mostly deserted. No business thrived during a time of siege, save the business of war.

Armando settled down on his bench with a sigh. "I usually am. Not particularly looking forward to it this time, I must admit. Whichever way the day goes, we'll lose some good men come dawn."

"It's always the good men who do the fighting and dying, while their lords sit safe and clean to enjoy the carnage."

"Not necessarily safe, and certainly not so clean," Armando replied mildly. "They say this king doesn't shy away from a fight. And though there's plenty ill to be said about Lord Marko, he's certainly willing to get his hands dirty when it comes to the sword. Dirk Holme may be less bloodthirsty, but he's no coward, either." He leaned forward. "And speaking of, they're saying that Holme's daughter Raven is still in the town. Eighteen years old, and likely privy to some of her father's secrets. Quite the prize to hold against Holme and his overlord, if anyone of the king's party manages to snatch her up."

"Hopefully she's well hidden, then. Though it's hard to imagine Cain Marko coming to the rescue of _any_ damsel, vassal's daughter or otherwise." Erik frowned, considering. "Raven, you called her? That's an unusual name for a gentlewoman."

Armando shrugged. "Not so rare among the Benedictines. Saint Benedict's Gift allowed him to speak with birds, and ravens in particular are sacred to him. More than a few young nuns in the Order adopt the name Sister Raven when they take their final vows. It's less common outside the Order, I grant you, but Holme _is_ a patron of this house."

"You Christians and your saints," Erik scoffed. "With so many of the Gifted performing minor miracles left and right, how do you decide which qualify for sainthood?"

Armando grinned in a manner somewhat too worldly for a holy brother. "I guess it's all in how you use it. Anyway, I like to think there's a difference between a Gift and a true miracle."

"Let's hope so." Erik crossed over to lean against the doorway, where the breeze from the river brought at least a breath of coolness into the evening air. "Which reminds me -- Gifts, not miracles, that is. Have you met Henry's new helper?

"I think so. Youngish lad, Robert something?"

"He goes by Bobby. Keep an eye out for him, will you? You see more than most, in here."

Armando raised an eyebrow. "One of us, you think?"

"Likely," Erik said. "Though he hasn't told me what his particular talents are. But he's the right age for it, and you know how unpredictable it can be when the first signs appear."

"So I hear. It went easy enough for me." Armando set aside his empty plate. "But then, mine is purely reactive. I'll wager _you_ caused a fair bit of chaos when you were young."

He meant it kindly enough, but Erik stiffened all the same. Armando knew more than most about his past. But despite the years they'd once spent on the road together, hunting Shaw, there were some details of his history that Erik had never shared -- with Armando or anyone else.

He had been seven years old when crusaders had passed through Cologne, and set his parents' synagogue alight in their religious fervor. He had screamed, and several soldiers' swords had flown from their hands to impale the men carrying the torches. It hadn't stopped the fire. But it had drawn the attention of their leader, and when the army moved on eastward some days later, Sebastian Shaw had taken the little boy who controlled metal along with them.

Well, that was long over and done with. Not Armando's fault that his jest had cut a little too close to home.

"Chaos enough," Erik agreed, doing his best to keep his tone level. "Hopefully Bobby's Gift -- assuming he has one -- will be less...destructive in nature."

Armando huffed out a laugh. "Man, you don't know from destructive. Have you ever met the older Summers boy, up in town? His brother's too young yet to show sign of it, and mayhap never will, but Alex's Gift is handful enough. Thanks be to God that neither of _them_ have been given to the Church."

Erik had a passing familiarity with that family -- Christopher Summers was the town blacksmith -- and heartily agreed. "Once they're old enough for soldiering, they'll certainly be put to work. Actually, isn't Alex about that age?"

"Yes, he's eighteen himself, and spitting mad that he's not been permitted to join the fight." Armando shook his head, sobering. "He's well out of this one. If the king takes the castle...well, it's been a long, hard siege. I worry he won't be inclined to show clemency."

Silence fell as they both considered the grim possibilities for the morrow. Eventually, the approach of hoofbeats brought them back to the here and now. Armando joined Erik at the gatehouse doorway to greet the abbey's potential visitor.

The rider dismounted with catlike grace and smiled in greeting. He was dressed practically for the road, but Erik could tell from the quality of his cloth and harness that he was a man of some means. Neither a tall nor a broad man, but lean and compact, and carried a fine, slender sword like a man well acquainted with its use. Minor nobility, at best guess.

"Welcome, friend," Brother Armando said, reaching up to stroke along the horse's neck. It seemed a pretty enough beast, a rangy chestnut stallion, but Armando had a better eye for horses than Erik ever would. "And your rider as well! How can I be of service?"

"I'm hoping to find lodging here, for the next few days if not longer," the guest said. "My name is Charles Xavier. I sent my men-at-arms ahead of me--"

Armando was nodding. "Of course, the arrangements have already been made. Let me go fetch the hospitaller."

One of the abbey grooms approached to take care of the horse, and Xavier nodded his thanks. "If it's all the same, I'll just follow along with you," he told Armando. "No need to make a fuss."

That was no trouble at all for Armando, so they set off across the abbey court together, chatting amiably. Xavier did give Erik one bright, curious glance as he passed, and Erik was momentarily startled by the intensity of that clear blue gaze. But he just as quickly dismissed it, and gave no further thought to the abbey's new guest.

* * *

Erik remained at the gatehouse to act as porter during Compline; when Brother Armando returned to relieve him at the end of the service, he found himself unable to even contemplate sleep. Armando passed the time with him for perhaps another hour before laughingly kicking him out -- "Mayhap you don't need sleep tonight, but I'd like to at least get a nap in before Matins!" -- and Erik reluctantly made his way out beyond the abbey gates.

Perhaps it was the tension of the upcoming battle; the King's camp would be making final preparations through the night, and the townsfolk likely slept only fitfully, if at all, bracing themselves for the dawn assault. Rather than turning right outside the gates and walking back down along the Foregate to his own home, Erik found himself moving in the opposite direction, along the road that led to the bridge into town.

The river Severn coiled about the town of Shrewsbury like a snake, with three-quarters of the town surrounded by water; the castle sat solidly securing the only land approach, and beyond that now lay the King's siege camp. Unless Anthony managed to secure the bridges and break through into the town by those routes -- chancy, given the narrowness of the bridges and the swift river waters -- his best approach would be a direct assault on the castle itself. Fortunately, this also kept the Severn as a natural barrier between his army and the abbey Foregate. It was unlikely that any of the fighting would spill out over here. Castle and town were the prize; the abbey and its tenants should remain unmolested.

Erik didn't try the bridge; the town gates would be barred fast, as they had been since the siege began, though the guards did sometimes permit noncombatants to pass in and out during daylight hours. Instead, he left the road entirely to make his way into the fields that lined this side of the river for a mile and more. This was abbey land still, and he knew it well, having worked it alongside the brothers and other lay tenants during the harvest season. The night air remained warm and humid, but a faint breeze came off the river, welcome and cool against his face. The town was quiet. As he walked further along the riverbank, he began to hear the faint sounds of the siege camp; muffled now, by distance and the lateness of the hour, but still humming like bees in a hive. When he reached out with his Gift, he could feel the metal of weaponry and armor. It was comforting, in its own way. He was no stranger to the buzz and hum of warfare.

Eventually, he reached the far end of the fields, where they faded into forestland. Good a place as any to turn back, especially on so dark a night as this. The sky was heavy with clouds. Moonlight occasionally poked through, lending enough glow to see by in the open air, but it would be full dark among the trees.

As he made his way back, he noticed something odd along the town walls. The river was narrower at this bend, only about a hundred feet wide, and the darkness of the night made it easy to spot the flare of a torch down by the old water-port in the wall. Someone was leaving the town by stealth, sneaking out along the river port. They doused the torch as soon as they emerged along the river, but by then Erik had spotted them and would not easily lose sight again. The distance and darkness made it impossible to make out the face, but the build was that of a man, about average height, and slender. A young man, at best guess, given the way he moved.

More out of curious habit than any real intent, Erik reached out to sense what metal the stranger might have about his person. No sword, but a thin dagger at his belt -- the sort of knife any man would keep about himself, nothing remarkable that Erik could feel. A handful of copper coins, likely in a pouch or pocket. A gold ring on his finger -- again, not particularly remarkable, but indicated that he was a man of some means. As did the large, interestingly-shaped brooch on his cloak -- it was too far away for even Erik's Gift to make out the details, but several different fine metals twined together sinuously. That work he might know again. So: a young knight or squire. Possibly even one of the town merchants -- but what would an honest tradesman be doing sneaking _away_ from the safety of the town? 

What would anyone?

It was neither Erik's fight nor his business, and he didn't remain to investigate further once the figure disappeared into the shadows of the siege camp. But still, as he followed the curve of the river back toward the Foregate and home, he wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doing my best with historical accuracy (plus, you know, mutants). So! This fic takes place during the [English Anarchy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Anarchy). Tony Stark is graciously playing the role of [King Stephen](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen,_King_of_England), with Emma Frost as his royal cousin and rival [Empress Matilda](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Empress_Matilda). I'm fudging the dates of the First Crusade -- it actually took place about 40 years before the Anarchy, but I'm gonna handwave it to be about 25 years earlier instead. Not that anyone outside of my fellow history nerds will care, but that's how Erik could have been a child during the crusade and in his mid-30s for this fic. Fun times.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the castle falls, troubling discoveries are made, and Erik receives a commission from a disconcerting young lord.

It was all over by mid-morning.

After a month of slow-burning siege, fitful assaults, dwindling supplies and morale within the castle, simmering resentment among the townsfolk, and restless impatience from all sides, it only took a matter of hours for the king's forces to storm the gates and walls and take castle, town, and all. Fortunately, the ordinary citizens of the town were spared any serious looting, for King Anthony shrewdly diverted his mercenaries away from their plunder in favor of hunting down and securing every last member of the Empress's garrison. He had wasted too much time and resources over the past few weeks, and was grimly determined that no man who had stood against him should escape retribution.

But before long, he learned that the most valuable prizes had somehow slipped through his fingers.

"They've flown clean out of the net," Remy LeBeau reported as neutrally as possible. To his credit, he didn't shrink away from being the bearer of such ill news. "Both Cain Marko and Dirk Holme, though it is said they waited until it was certain the town would fall. Not one man of the garrison will admit to any knowledge of how they managed it."

"No? We'll see how long that lasts." Anthony gestured curtly to Stane. "Have them questioned. Any knights, squires, or sergeants still alive. And Rhodey, send your men to scour the town a second time. If they held it so late to run, they might well still be hidden within the town walls. No looting until these traitor lords are found and brought to me for justice."

Stane and Rhodes both bowed and set off to see it done. But nothing would come of either interrogation or search, and by early afternoon, it was clear that the lords Marko and Holme had indeed made good their escape.

It was Rhodes who made the final report. "LeBeau's men searched the castle top to bottom, and my Flemings have ransacked every house on every street. There is no trace of either man. But they have lived their whole lives in these parts; no doubt they knew of some secret route out of the town, and were gone before ever we discovered them missing."

"Wonderful," the king snarled, in high temper. The day had been long and hot, he was sore and battle-stained, and the satisfaction of breaking the siege at last proved pale indeed under such circumstances. "And the rest? How many men were taken of the garrison?"

"Ninety-four in arms."

"Your Grace," Obadiah Stane broke in smoothly, "clemency now would be seen as weakness. And these are traitors all."

"Any man who willingly surrendered--"

But Stane turned on Rhodes before he could complete the argument. "You would feed and house _ninety-four_ prisoners? Where? With what supplies? And for how long? These are no lords to be ransomed, but commons of the garrison. Would you bring them along with us to slow us down when we must needs march onward from this wretched town? Or release them to fight against us again tomorrow? I would not have thought a mercenary to be so soft-hearted!"

And King Anthony was not in a forgiving mood. "Hang them all," he gritted out. "I want this filthy business over and done with before tomorrow."

Rhodes knew better than to argue further, though he shot Stane a dark look before bowing to obey. "At once, Your Grace."

This job would fall to Rhodes's mercenaries. No point in delaying, however distasteful he might personally find it. If Stane had not pressed the issue, the king would have cooled soon enough, and likely been more circumspect in his sentence. Still, the men of the garrison _were_ traitors against the crown. Execution was the king's justice. But what a damned waste, Rhodes thought. At least it would keep his men busy, and save the townsfolk from being pillaged of everything they had of value.

While the mercenaries began the grisly work of dispatching the rebels from their own castle battlements, and Stane set off to deploy his new garrison and see that the rest of the castle was made orderly and fit for habitation again, Remy took the king aside. "There is one other thing," he said. "We found something deep in the dungeons, Your Grace, that Lord Stane thought best you see for yourself."

Always happy to be distracted, especially before his conscience might have a chance to make its discomfort known, Anthony followed the young officer down into the bowels of the castle. It was unremarkable, as such castles went, here in the English countryside: sturdy enough, being so near the Welsh border, and God knew it had proven a difficult nut to crack even for the king's army. But below the ordinary level of dungeons -- in a self-sufficient walled town such as Shrewsbury, it would function as an all-purpose jail for any local miscreants -- there was a stone stairwell concealed behind a heavy iron door. That was already strange.

"No one would tell us what lay beyond the door," Remy informed him. "Only Marko had the key, supposedly. But I managed." His smile flashed quicksilver, and Anthony recalled that this officer had a rather uncanny Gift that could be used, among other things, for bursting apart locks from within. An ingenious knack, something to do with the small purse of pennies he always kept at his belt. One of these days, Anthony would have to study it further.

At the bottom of the stairs, a curious chamber was revealed. It had been a part of the dungeons once, by the look of it. But instead of cells or the usual accoutrements of a prison, there was a throne-like metal chair at the center, with a strange contraption of some kind at its head. Three of Remy's men stood guard. Apart from the throne (for lack of a better word to describe it), the room was in clear disarray. Whatever else had been in here, it had been disassembled or packed up in a hurry, leaving only incomprehensible remnants behind.

Anthony stepped up to the throne and examined it closely, running a hand along the metal. He knew a thing or two about the working of iron -- even kings have their hobbies. But what use was a throne, down in a secret dungeon? And what purpose did the rest of it serve?

"I assume Obadiah questioned the garrison about this?"

"To no avail. Whatever its use, Marko seems to have kept the secret close."

Anthony drummed his fingers on the arm of the throne, frowning. "There's one other in these parts who might have _insight_ as to Marko's purpose here. Send a runner to the abbey guest house. I need to speak with Charles Xavier."

* * *

The abbey gates remained shut all morning, while the battle raged within the town; the abbot only allowed them opened again after High Mass had ended. He was by nature a cautious man, but wanted to show a willing and open face to the world as soon as he deemed it safe, and prove that all were welcome within. Besides, he had faith in his porter: Brother Armando had been a soldier once, and was well nigh indestructible due to his Gift. The abbot trusted his judgement at the gates. Should any unforeseen trouble arise, Armando would defend their house.

Not that he would have to, Armando thought. He kept a sharp eye on the quiet Foregate all the same, but no one had any interest in traveling abroad today. Not while the king's men were still hunting traitors.

"Brother Armando?"

He turned to see one of the abbey pupils hovering awkwardly behind the gateway arch. It took him a moment to place the lad's name. "Yes, that's me. Bobby, isn't it? You're Brother Henry's new assistant." He frowned, considering the sun's position in the sky. "Shouldn't you be at lessons with the other boys?"

"Brother Paul let us out early," Bobby explained. Paul was the master of the novices, in charge of their schooling. "He said that since we were all as twitchy as hares and unable to mind the simplest of tasks, we'd be better off out of doors where we could jump at our own shadows at leisure."

Armando laughed at that. Bobby had a knack for impersonation -- he could well picture Paul's exasperation. And more than that, his kindness, though the children probably didn't recognize it as such. It was difficult enough for the adults of the abbey to focus on their normal duties on a day like this.

"So what brings you here, then?"

Bobby shrugged, kicking at a clump of grass. But his eyes keep drifting sidelong up toward the town and the distant, smoky castle battlements. "The other boys say you're the one who hears all the news first. Do you know what's happening, up in the town? There's all these stories swirling about…"

"You probably know as much as I do, for now," Armando admitted. "Plenty of troublesome rumors in the air, like you said. Best wait until we have aught of substance to fret over." He looked the lad over with a sympathetic eye. Gifted or no, Bobby was clearly anxious over the fate of the town. He likely had kin within. "I don't mind the company, if you'd like to stop in a while. And I think I've still got a few oatcakes tucked away in the gatehouse somewhere. A good snack always lightens the spirit."

Bobby's eyes brightened at that, and he nodded. 

"So how do you like working with Henry?" Armando asked as he passed over a couple of oatcakes.

Bobby munched thoughtfully for a minute before responding. "He's a bit odd, but I like him. He seems very clever. Is that part of his Gift?"

Armando laughed. "Not all talents are supernatural! And it's hard to say. His Gift makes him stronger and faster than most, but smarter? I think that's just Henry."

"The other boys say that _you're_ Gifted as well."

"You seem awfully curious about Gifts."

Bobby shrugged, though the tips of his ears went pink. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude."

He could see why Erik had his suspicions about this one. But plenty of the other children were just as a curious, and it didn't necessarily mean they were Gifted themselves. Bobby didn't seem frightened, at least. And Armando had never cared to hide who he was. "Yes, I've got my own talents." He rolled up the sleeve of his habit and concentrated a moment, until the skin of his arm visibly hardened into scales. Bobby's eyes widened -- more out of delight than anything else -- and he hesitantly reached out a hand. "Go ahead, you can touch it."

Bobby ran his fingers lightly along the scales. "Oh! It feels like...stone, or maybe even iron. So you can shift into armor?"

"Armor, certainly, at need. Or anything else." Armando released his Gift, and his arm shifted smoothly back into ordinary skin. "If I'm underwater, I grow gills. If I jump from a great height, wings, like a bat. My body can defend itself from just about anything. It's reactive, mostly -- harder to do when there's no _reason_ for it. But I don't have to think about it when it is needed." He shook his head, remembering a time on the road in France when he and Erik had been ambushed by archers. He hadn't even known an arrow had flown true until it bounced right off his shoulder. "Came in handy a time or two before I took the cowl, that's certain. A monk's life is significantly less fraught, though, so I've less use for it lately."

"That's wonderful, though," Bobby said, almost wistfully. "To be so...indestructible. Nothing can hurt you, ever!"

His eyes strayed back up to the town, and the smoky pall hanging over the castle. Armando felt a swell of sympathy. "Physically, perhaps not," he said gently. "But there's other hurts, some far worse, and no Gift can shield anyone from those."

"No," Bobby agreed. "I suppose not." His gaze turned inward, and something in his expression hardened. "And I know it isn't always easy to be so visibly Gifted. At least _you_ look normal most of the time. Not like...well, like Henry, I guess. Erik said that's probably why his parents gave him up to the Church."

"Erik shouldn't speculate on what he doesn't know," Armando said, though he couldn't really disagree. Still, it was clear Bobby was struggling with not feeling _normal_ enough. That was not proof he was Gifted; what teenager didn't have such concerns? But it did seem increasingly likely he had secrets of his own. "But yes, any form of outward difference can be...challenging to navigate, at times."

Bobby gaped at him, abruptly chagrined. "Oh! I didn't even think--!"

"That I'm very visibly foreign?"

"Right." Bobby's cheeks were bright red by this point, but after a few minutes of sitting in awkward silence, he asked: "Can you change that, too? If you can shift your skin?"

"I've never tried. Nor would I want to."

Bobby frowned, clearly trying to wrap his head around this concept. "But if you _could_ \-- wouldn't that make your life easier, here in England? To be less...different?"

"Mayhap it would, in some small ways," Armando told him, "but it's part of the story of my life. Part of how the Lord shaped me, and taught me. And changing that would dishonor my father, who traveled so far to meet my mother; my mother, who loved me and raised me to love God, and only ever wished the best for all the days of my life. Why would I ever want to hide myself?" He shook his head firmly. "It's who I am, there is no shame in that."

If Bobby could learn one lesson only, from his time here at the abbey, let it be that! He gave no response, but brooded thoughtfully over the last oatcake.

That was about when a runner from the castle arrived at the gates, asking for a guest of the abbey named Charles Xavier, and Armando was busy enough for the next minutes that he didn't notice when Bobby slipped away.

* * *

Some thirty minutes later, Xavier arrived at the castle, looking pale and grim. But whatever thoughts he might have had regarding the executions, he kept to himself. Remy led him down into what Anthony now jokingly referred to as "the Throne Room."

Xavier's face immediately blanched at the sight.

"If ever you were Marko's confidante, enlighten us now," the king commanded. "What purpose did this serve?"

Xavier hesitated before responding, taking a few steps closer to the throne. "I...I admit to some confusion," he finally said. "If Your Grace would permit…?"

Anthony waved him forward. "Go ahead. I can't make heads or tails of it myself. If it's some sort of torture device, it seems to be quiescent enough."

But he kept an intent eye on his newest adherent as Xavier took a closer look. By that wordless reaction upon entering the chamber, Anthony suspected that Xavier could at least guess what this was.

After a few minutes' examination, Xavier sat boldly upon the chair, looking up to where the contraption hung directly above his head. Remy, standing guard, made an aborted movement forward, but his king gestured him back. It looked like some twisted parody of a coronation, as though a crown ought to now descend from the device.

Whatever Xavier had expected to happen next, he was evidently disappointed. He frowned as though in concentration, then shook his head and got back up to his feet.

"Well?" Anthony demanded. "I have no Gift to read your thoughts, so you must share them aloud like normal men."

Xavier's lips curved into a wry smile. "Aptly put, sire. I was curious to see if perhaps this...throne, as you called it, was in fact intended precisely as that. For a ruler with Gifts such as mine."

"For the Empress Emma, you mean." Anthony looked at it again with fresh eyes. "But tucked away in a dungeon in Shropshire -- for what purpose?"

"This would only be a first test. If it proved effective, then it could be rebuilt elsewhere."

"But what would it do, exactly?"

Xavier shrugged, his eyes darting back to the hanging contraption. "There are limits on all Gifts. Perhaps they hoped that this would...expand those limits, somewhat. But if so, it didn't work, or is yet incomplete -- I would have expected a headpiece or helmet of some sort to channel my telepathy. And I felt nothing beyond the ordinary when I sat there."

"Maybe your guess is wrong, then," Remy suggested with a frown. He was flipping a penny idly between his fingers. "Maybe it is meant for something else entirely."

"Certainly possible," Xavier agreed neutrally. But Anthony, watching him, doubted it. He had been far too quick to hypothesize. Xavier had good reason to suspect Cain Marko of experiments along these lines. "Either way, I'm afraid I won't be much more use to you in this. My Gift is useless with no one to question, and I know nothing of metalworking, to be able to examine it more critically on its own merits."

"Yes," Anthony mused. "Whatever its purpose, Marko would have needed his own smith to construct it."

Xavier gave him a quick, thoughtful glance, then inclined his head. "As you say."

"Ah, well, it was worth a try." The king shook his head. "I must meet with the bailiffs of the town now. Apparently they are eager to assure me of their undying loyalty." He smiled grimly. "We shall all be glad to have done with death today. Remy, continue your search further afield for the rebel leaders. You may make use of as many men as you deem necessary. And Lord Xavier -- we have no further need of you at this time. Though with Lord Holme still at large," he added pointedly from the doorway, "if you do happen to stumble across that daughter of his...well, she's now more valuable than ever. And I'm sure you're quite eager to reclaim your lovely fiancee."

* * *

The houses and shops of the town had all been barred tightly since before dawn; no one wanted any part in the battle. After two rounds of thorough searches from the Flemish mercenaries, the ordinary townsfolk had shut themselves back inside, many with prayers of thanks that it had not gone any worse for them. There would be no business conducted today.

News still carried quickly, of course, and rumors faster still. It was said that the lords Marko and Holme had escaped capture, and though more than one were secretly glad to hear of it, others were less pleased, worried what penance the king might exact upon the rest of town and castle. And sure enough, anyone who set foot out of doors and looked up to the smoky battlements could see when the hangings began.

Alex Summers paced and brooded in his family's home, frustrated at being pent up all day, worried for his friends among the young soldiers of the garrison, angry that he had not been permitted to join them. His father had once been man-at-arms to Lord Holme himself, and a fine swordsman; he had retired some years ago, with Holme's blessing, to open his own smithy in the town, and was raising both his sons to the blacksmith's trade. Alex didn't mind the work, honestly, but he would far rather be wielding a sword than forging it. It galled him to have to wait; he was eighteen years old! Boys younger than him trained in arms! He should have been there with the garrison when the attack came.

"And you'd be swinging now with all the rest," his mother snapped, grieving for the town's losses and weary of his whingeing. "So bite your tongue and give thanks that your father held you back. You can fight another day."

The thudding upon their barred front door took both by surprise. After the clash and cry of battle, and then the busy footsteps of the Flemings searching all the houses of the town, all had settled into eerie silence for some hours. Mother and son stared at one another, uncertain how to respond.

After a few long moments, the knocking came again, followed by a muffled voice. "Katherine, Christopher -- open to me! It's Charles Xavier! I'm alone, please let me in!"

"You can't!" Alex hissed at once. "He never committed to Holme or the Empress's cause, there's not one man of his among the garrison -- we can't trust him!"

Katherine Summers' face was pale, but resolute. "He'll know we're within. Hush, lad, and run and fetch your father."

"You know he's here for Raven!"

"And he won't find her here, will he?" his mother said, iron in her voice. "Get your father, Alex. And keep any ill thoughts from your mind. You know his Gift."

Alex scowled ferociously, but ran to do her bidding all the same. His father was at his forge with Scott, making use of the enforced idleness to walk the younger boy through the careful process of shaping horseshoes.

"Charles Xavier is in the front room," Alex announced without ceremony. His father's head jerked up from the workbench. Scott just looked confused. Well, he was only ten. They had moved from Holme's manor lands to Shrewsbury some years ago, and he likely remembered Xavier only vaguely, if at all.

His father got to his feet in a hurry. "I should have expected this. Boys, go to the bedchamber. There's no need for you to entertain our guest. He won't stay long."

Alex opened his mouth to protest, but his father just gave him a hard look, with a significant nod at Scott. His scowl deepened. Of course his little brother wouldn't know anything about keeping his thoughts inside his own head. Not around a telepath.

But once he'd deposited Scott firmly in their bedroom, with one or two bribes and threats to keep him still and silent, Alex himself crept back out into the hall to listen in on the conversation.

It sounded like his parents had spent a few minutes on solicitous pleasantries, making a great show of asking if Xavier was safe, if he'd been followed by the king's men, if he needed a place to hide himself. Alex snorted under his breath. As though the man were on their side! But it would be a good way to get their own thoughts in order. Xavier himself had taught Alex the trick of it, when he was younger.

Alex's mother had been Raven Holme's nurse throughout the lady's childhood, and since Alex and Raven were of an age and the only children in the house until Scott came along, they'd often played together. Charles Xavier was ten years older, and lived on his own manor at Maesbury, but the families were close enough, and Charles didn't mind entertaining the little ones when he visited. Alex had liked him then. He'd been kind and funny, and never treated Alex any differently than Raven, even though Raven was a lady and Alex only a servant's son.

"It's not as though I can hear a man's entire history in an eyeblink," Charles had explained, one dull rainy afternoon at the manor. "We all have thoughts that bubble along the surface, like light glinting off a river. But there's a great deal going on underneath that is harder to discern. All your memories and feelings, experiences and imaginings -- how could I hear that all, all at once? And even if I could, how to pick out what's important amidst all the nonsense? If I ask you -- and don't speak it -- what did you have for breakfast this morning?" Alex had kept his mouth clamped shut, but couldn't help but think of the bread and cheese he'd eaten in the kitchen, and Charles had smiled. "Precisely. But I made you think of it first, didn't I? If you had thought very firmly about, oh, all the exciting sword practice amongst the men-at-arms you were watching yesterday, then that's all I'd hear. It would be much harder for me to learn about breakfast instead."

But it was like being told not to think about a unicorn, wasn't it? Once you had the thought, it was impossible not to imagine unicorns. And no matter how much his parents tried to distract themselves now, as soon as Xavier asked them: "Where is Raven? They're saying Holme left it too late to get her out of the town in time. You must tell me -- is she safe? Where can I find her?"

How could their thoughts not leap immediately to Raven, and betray her?

"Were you sent to look for her here?" Alex's father demanded, deflecting again. "Are we suspected?"

"No, no, of course not," Xavier said soothingly. "But who else would I ask? I know you both love the girl as if she were one of your own. Please, Christopher, Katherine -- you must know I only want to see her safe. I can protect her."

There was a long pause. Alex inched closer to the open doorway. Finally, his mother said, "She was here, yes, of course she was. But you're too late, Charles. Her father sent two knights to collect her, a week ago now. We weren't told where they were taking her -- what we don't know, we can't betray. But I am sure that she is safe, and well away from here!"

It was half true, at least, and maybe that honesty would muddy the waters. Alex clenched his hands into fists at his side and prayed it was enough.

"Can you not help me at all?" Xavier asked. "I'm her intended husband. I'm responsible for her, if anything should happen to her father -- and who knows what has?" His voice was quiet, and God help him, he sounded sincere. Alex cursed him fluently and viciously in his own head. Let the turncoat bastard read _that_ instead!

"God forbid," Christopher said. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, lad, but at least we all can be assured that no enemy has laid hand on her."

No, indeed, Alex thought angrily. And he won't, ever!

It took a few minutes longer, but Xavier apparently accepted his lot, and thanked them both for their efforts on Raven's behalf. At the last moment, he seemed to think of one more matter. "Oh, Christopher, you might know this -- are there any other strong metalworkers in the town, besides yourself? Not just a simple blacksmith, but another who makes a true art of it?"

Christopher sounded taken aback at the unexpected question. "If it's not a sword you're wanting -- for you know I still make the finest! -- then I suppose the best man for the work would be Erik Lehnsherr, in the abbey Foregate. He has a Gift for it."

Xavier thanked them again, and left. Once he was good and gone, the door barred shut again behind him, Alex stormed back into the main room.

"He's lying," he announced. "He never cared about marrying Raven -- he only cares what she'll bring him now that he's switched sides."

"You don't know that, son," his father said heavily. "And he never would wish her harm. Not the Charles Xavier I knew. What's more, he never took a side in the first place, so he's betrayed no one even if he has declared now for King Anthony."

"How is that any better?" Alex demanded. "Too cowardly to even fight for what he believes in!"

Christopher just shook his head, and looked to his wife. "No matter what side he's on, at least he never knew to ask about young Allerdyce's mission. With luck, he'll never find out that lad is involved at all, though God knows I couldn't help but think of him."

"Oh, Christ," Alex muttered, and glared indiscriminately at both his parents when they looked at him with disapproval. "Oh, come on, you of all people know how strong his Gift is! How would you know what he did or didn't catch? He may have learned everything he needed straight out of your heads!"

He could feel the pulsing heat of his own Gift beginning to burn red-hot in his blood, and did his best to tamp it down before it could reach his skin and burst out of him, breathing deeply to calm himself.

"And what would he have heard, then?" his mother asked, sounding more weary than angry. "That Raven left a week ago? I told him that outright. That she's hiding at the abbey? Well and good, what can he do with that?" Her laugh was short and low. "Even I couldn't begin to guess who that girl looks like now!"

* * *

Erik had spent the day in his own workshop, though he knew he'd be getting no casual business today. But as he'd suspected, the abbey and its lands had been left alone during the fighting, and though the rumors flew through the guest house and along the Foregate, no horrors were personally visited upon them. Erik unbarred the double doors to his workshop to leave it open to the air, both in the hopes of keeping cooler within and so that he might hear and take warning should their fortunes change. By late afternoon, it was common knowledge that all the men of the garrison who had survived the battle were now being hanged from the castle battlements. Well, war was ugly business. He'd witnessed far crueler deaths in his time.

He was fiddling with the ornate design of a chalice commissioned by the abbey -- no rush on the piece, it was to commemorate some saint or another whose festival day fell late in the autumn -- when someone rapped on the doorframe. Since the door stood open, it could only have been meant as a polite way to get his attention. Erik set down the design and stood to greet his unexpected visitor.

He'd assumed it would be one of the neighbors with some new rumor to share, or perhaps Henry or another monk from the abbey. But he looked up to see a stranger.

"Beg pardon," the man said. "I'm looking for Erik Lehnsherr. Oh -- I know you, from the gatehouse!"

And then Erik recognized him as the noble guest who'd ridden in so late to the abbey last night. He fished the name out of his memory: Charles Xavier. "Yes. I'm Erik. What can I do for you?"

Xavier looked him over with a friendly smile. Seen in the afternoon light, his eyes were an intense shade of blue. "I'd wondered about you," Xavier remarked instead of answering. "You didn't look like one of the brothers. So you're a metalworker!"

He turned that unnervingly bright gaze away to examine Erik's workshop instead. Hard to imagine what he might see of any interest to a nobleman. Erik kept the place neat and clean, with his tools all hanging along the walls and materials sorted into their proper places. There was a small forge in one corner, and the various works in progress each had their own bench. In truth, part of the reason Erik was able to keep everything so clean was that he hardly ever needed to use any of those tools, or that forge. His Gift supplied him with all he needed. But there were always some commissions that needed the normal complement of metalworking equipment, and besides, Erik preferred not to flaunt the strength of his Gift. No one needed to know that he could shape iron without even a touch of flame.

"You come highly recommended," Xavier said. "I can see why."

Erik had no interest in idle flattery. "I'm glad to hear it. How may I be of service, my lord?"

"Oh, there's no need for that," Xavier said, with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Charles is fine, especially since we're all caught up in this together as the king...sorts out the town." It was impossible to tell from his tone how he felt about it. Though he must have been of King Anthony's party, if he was still here. Those of the abbey's guests who were known partisans of the Empress had been making hasty, unobtrusive departures over the course of the day, once Shrewsbury's fate was certain. "In any case," Xavier -- _Charles_ \-- went on, "since I'm currently sitting idle until the king decides he has need of me, I thought I might take care of some minor business that's been waiting for a quiet moment." He had a travel pack slung over his shoulder; now he set it down on a clear workbench, and opened it to reveal an ornate horse's bridle. "It's not my usual preference," Charles added, with a faint grimace, "but when one attends upon a king, well...best be prepared."

"May I?" At Charles's nod, Erik picked up the bridle to examine it more closely. The decorative bosses at the bit were fashioned largely out of bronze, though inlaid with strips of gold and small gemstones. The general effect was rather too precious for Erik's tastes. Someone had clearly reworked an existing bridle to add the decoration; the bit itself was badly worn down, and on one side the boss was on the verge of falling off entirely.

"As I said, I rarely use it," Charles said. "But I noticed when I unpacked it last night that the bit needed replacing. I can't imagine they're ever particularly comfortable for the horse, but I won't subject mine to this, not in its current condition. Now that I think on it, I suppose it's been sitting idle on a shelf since my father's time."

Erik nodded, already going through the steps he'd need to repair this one. "The boss on the left needs reattaching as well -- see?" Charles stepped in to look, bending his head close to Erik's shoulder; he was some inches shorter than Erik, though he carried himself with the self-assurance of a much taller man. "But I'm afraid there's not much I can do about the style," Erik added drily. "Unless you'd like to commission a new bridle entirely."

That startled a laugh out of Charles, who looked directly up into Erik's face with a boyish grin. "I'd consider taking you up on that, if I had the time! I imagine you have excellent taste."

Something shifted in Charles's smile then, sharpening its edges, his blue eyes intent. Erik was abruptly very aware of how close they were standing. He set the bridle down on the workbench with a clatter, taking a step back. "I suppose you'll have to find out another time. When do you need this done?"

Charles blinked, looking equally discomfited for a moment, before shaking it off with a different sort of smile. He looked almost regretful. "There's no particular rush, though I'm not sure how long I'll be in attendance here. Would two days be enough?"

Truth be told, Erik's Gift could make quick work of this bridle -- it would hardly take him an hour -- but he was suddenly wary of showing off too much for this stranger. "That should suffice." He named a fair price, which Charles readily agreed to, and then turned to set the bridle aside. There was no need to begin work on it immediately. He had a thing or two to consider first.

But Charles lingered, examining the chalice design Erik had been working on. "This is lovely. Do you often do work for the Church?"

"Often enough," Erik said. "The abbey has been good to me. Smaller items and repairs, mostly, but they sometimes commission more elaborate work."

Charles nodded, as if to himself. "As do some of the townsfolk, surely. Not to mention the local gentry -- it's clear you work with quality materials. Did you ever have any larger commissions? Not in terms of cost, but size? I was only wondering about your forge," he said quickly, at Erik's sharp glance. "It's smaller than most I've seen."

"I leave the forging of weapons to the castle armorers," Erik said evenly. "I prefer finer craftsmanship. Though I have no trouble with larger pieces upon request. Were you thinking of anything in particular?"

"Just curious." Charles tried on another smile, along with a light shrug. "I don't mean to offend. As I said, I'm rather at loose ends for the moment."

It was a natural enough curiosity, a newcomer passing the time in idle chat. But something about the man set Erik on edge, in ways he wasn't sure he wanted to examine more closely. "Who was it recommended me, if I might ask?"

"Christopher Summers, in the town. You're well-regarded by the local tradesmen."

"Summers is a fine smith. I appreciate his sending business my way." Erik's eyes narrowed. "Though surely he could have taken care of this for you, if you'd asked. Iron may be his specialty, but he knows his way around a bridle, and it's a fairly straightforward repair."

"I didn't want to impose," Charles said vaguely. "Anyway, you're far more convenient, here in the Foregate." His mouth set into a hard line. "And no one in the town is much in the mood for business today. Not that I can blame them."

Erik couldn't help but agree with that. "Is it true, then, what they're saying? He's sentenced the entire garrison?"

"It is true. I'm so sorry," Charles added, and he did sound sincere. "Of course you would be affected as well…"

Erik shrugged. "War affects everyone it touches," he said gruffly. "I've known far worse."

"Yes," Charles murmured. "I expect you have." He shook his head, as if to clear it, and offered Erik another smile, this one rather more subdued. "I'll leave you to it, then. I'll stop by for the bridle day after tomorrow. Late afternoon, perhaps?"

"That's fine." Erik watched him go, still somewhat disconcerted by the young lord's visit, and not sure why he should be feeling anything at all.

* * *

That evening, Erik listened for the Vespers bells and went to visit Brother Armando again at the gatehouse once the service ended. He didn't normally stop by two nights in a row, but it had been an uneasy day, and the abbey porter likely would have the most up-to-date information on the battle and its aftermath.

The local laity were spilling out of the church, more than usual for an ordinary evening service. But Erik supposed it was natural for thoughts to turn to God on a day like this. And not just the abbey's guests or residents of the Foregate, either; Erik spotted a number of townspeople in the crowd as well. The town gates must be open at last, then, to allow worshippers to travel back and forth, though they would be barred again soon for the night. Of course, there were several smaller churches within the town walls, but perhaps they had sought a different sort of peace here, further away from the king's soldiers and the stench of death. The hangings would continue well into the night.

Towards the end of the initial press of departing worshippers, Erik saw Alex Summers among the throng, in what appeared to be close conversation with another young man of his own years. Erik likely only noticed him at all because the Summers family was on his mind, between Armando's mention of them last night and the recommendation that had brought Charles Xavier to his workshop this afternoon. The fellow accompanying him was unfamiliar to Erik, but there were plenty in the town he didn't know by name. Strange that Alex should be here alone, without his parents or brother, but perhaps his friend had invited him along. They were so intent upon their hushed discussion that they nearly walked right into Erik as they passed.

"Beg pardon!" Alex said. The friend gave Erik an unduly startled look, and tugged at Alex's elbow to pull him more quickly along the road. Erik just shook his head. Probably both were still on edge after the grisly events of the day.

In the gatehouse, Armando was happy enough to see Erik, and even offered to share the remains of his supper with him. There wasn't much news to be had, though, beyond what Erik had already heard: the losses in battle had been bad enough, followed by the king's order to execute all the surviving members of the garrison. But looting had been kept to a minimum, and King Anthony had been quick to accept the town bailiffs' offer of loyalty. The king's forces were already beginning to repair the damages they had caused to the castle, and the town itself was not too badly hurt. In time, all would be rebuilt and restored, save the loss of life.

"They're saying that Lords Marko and Holme got away clean, though," Armando added. "I wonder how on earth they managed it?"

Erik snorted. "It's as I told you. The ones who call the shots never get their own hands dirty." He shook his head over it and sighed. "Well, enough of death. Anything interesting happening at the abbey, or is everyone just keeping their heads down and praying?"

Armando quirked an eyebrow. "About as you'd expect. We lost more than a few guests today, scurrying off before the king could make note of where their loyalties lay. But it seems we've our fair share of Anthony's adherents still left."

For a moment, Erik very nearly asked him if he knew anything about Charles Xavier; but then he bit his tongue. Charles was just a bored, chatty nobleman with a broken bridle. Once the king had settled his business here and departed, so too would his hangers-on, and Charles would return to his lands and trouble Erik no more. He wasn't worth any more thought than that.

"You were right about Henry's young helper," Armando was saying, having continued on in his report of the day. "That lad _has_ to be Gifted, though he got real squirrelly when I tried asking him -- roundabout, you know."

Erik had completely forgotten about Bobby, he realized somewhat guiltily. "You've spoken with him, then?"

"Didn't take much effort on my part. Either you or Henry must've mentioned me to him, because the boy came poking around after Mass. He's far too curious about the Gifted not to be so himself. Had all manner of questions for me, once he heard what I could do."

Erik grinned. He could easily picture it. Armando got on well with children, and enjoyed showing off his abilities in small, harmless ways. "That must have been entertaining for you both."

"Don't I know it." Armando's expression shifted into something more pensive. "I do wonder about the boy. You know, he asked me, if I could change the color of my skin, would I?"

"Rather forward of him!"

"I think he's got some struggles of his own to work through," Armando said, more charitably than Erik might have felt in his place. "Hopefully I helped steer him aright. If he _is_ Gifted, he should not be ashamed of it, but bear his Gifts proudly." He glanced sidelong at Erik. "You helped teach me that, once."

"I learned far more from you than ever I had to teach," Erik said quietly. He thought it over, considering what little he knew of young Bobby Drake. "It seems like your friendship would be good for the boy. He doesn't sound very comfortable in his own skin."

Armando laughed. "Who is, at that age?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Brother Henry, ducking his head to fit in at the doorway. "Armando! Oh, and Erik's here as well, excellent, that will save me a trip. I was wondering if I could borrow you both tomorrow for some unpleasant business."

They exchanged a glance. "What would that be?" Erik asked.

"I've just come from the abbot," Henry explained. "He's going tonight to ask permission from King Anthony on behalf of the dead -- that is, he wants to give those poor souls of the garrison a decent burial. It's not right," he said, firing into indignation as only Henry could, "just letting them all fall, as they are, no matter who they fought for! But assuming the king grants permission, he wants me to assemble a crew to go to the castle tomorrow, to prepare the dead for burial, so that their families can come claim them. Or to be buried here at the abbey, for those with no kin hereabouts. I know it's unpleasant work," he added, looking anxiously at both of their faces. "But both of you were soldiers once -- or, well, at the very least, you have experience with such matters, and it won't distress you as it might some of the more sheltered brothers here."

That last he said matter-of-factly, clearly not including himself in the number of those timid, unworldly creatures. But Henry, with his potions and poultices, was no stranger to illness or death. It was likely why the abbot had selected him for this duty.

Armando exchanged another wry look with Erik and sighed. "Of course we'll help you, Henry," he said. "But man, you will owe me one after this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battle of Shrewsbury did happen, and the King really did [hang the entire garrison as traitors](http://shropshirehistory.com/government/executions.htm). Dick move, dude.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is one corpse too many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the murder mystery part kicks in. Again, warning for non-graphic descriptions of death -- nothing worse than your average PBS Mystery episode.

"That's not right," Henry said aloud, frowning over the rows of carefully cleaned bodies. It had been long, hard work over the past several hours: collecting the dead soldiers from where they had fallen, bringing them here into the inner ward of the castle, and washing and composing them as kindly and becomingly as possible, so that they might minimize the horror for the kin who would come to identify them. That had been a challenge: the hanged men had been cut down from the battlements and let fall to the soft ground just outside the town walls. Now, finally, all were nearly ready to be viewed and claimed.

But the numbers weren't adding up right.

Henry paced along the rows again, now making a more meticulous accounting. The total remained the same. Still feeling somewhat hesitant to confront the secular authorities -- Obadiah Stane and the mercenary captain, Rhodes -- he instead went to his particular friends among the crew he'd assembled for this grisly task, taking them aside.

"I want you both to make a final count of the dead," he told Erik and Armando bluntly. "I was told there were ninety-four executed, but I keep coming up with ninety-five. Perhaps I miscounted; I'd rather have it verified. And while you do, take a closer glance at the bodies, in case there is indeed one that stands out. All these men were hanged from the neck, with their hands bound; they all should have the marks of it."

"They all do, at least that I saw," Armando said. "Hard to miss, when we're trying to make these poor fellows presentable for their families."

"Yes, but there were many of us at the work, and others are not so observant as you -- nor would have wanted to be, honestly." Henry sighed, looking bleakly out over the rows of dead men. "So let's be sure."

They nodded agreement, and all three went again to add up the dead. Henry hoped against hope that he had been wrong. But sure enough, Armando and Erik's accounting bore him out: there were ninety-five men lying dead in this ward.

And Erik found one who was not quite like all the rest.

"He _was_ strangled," Erik said, pulling the cotte back away from the young man's neck, "but not with a thick rope, like the others. See how thin this cut is, all around the neck? Fishing line, perhaps. The sort of strangle-cord a killer might use -- I've seen such before. You could not dangle from that noose." He shook his head with a frown. "And another thing. Scorch marks at the ends of his shirtsleeves, here, and cuts on his hands, blood under his fingernails. He was not bound; he fought the cord that strangled him. I can't explain the scorched cuffs, though -- strange that his skin was unmarked, if he was burned wearing it. But perhaps he simply had no other shirt to wear."

Henry leaned closer, examining the wounds. Catching an odd scent, he bent his own head closer still, then gently braced his arm behind the dead man's shoulders to lift him up partway and run a hand along the back of his head. "Some of his hair is singed as well -- see? Down by the back of the neck, close to where the cord cut him. He also has a sizeable lump at the back of his skull here. That might have been enough to knock him out, if he fought back and the killer needed to incapacitate him." He set the body back down, studying the face more intently. Not familiar to him. A man of about his own age, early twenties perhaps, and would have been considered comely enough in life. "Do either of you recognize him?"

He held little hope; if they had, they would have identified him by now. And sure enough, both shook their heads. "But I will say," Armando added, "this man was dressed for riding, not for soldiering. I know they were all stripped of mail and leather before the hangings, but this cloth would not have been worn under such. He wanted to be comfortable riding by either day or night, in this summer weather."

By this point, their activities had drawn the interest of one of the captains. Rhodes had ambled gradually over to them, and had likely overheard at least that last remark. "I don't mean to interrupt," he said civilly. "But I couldn't help but notice your particular attentions to this one. Is there something the king should be made aware of?"

"Quite possibly," Henry said, his earlier reticence forgotten in the face of such solid proof. "Captain, can you confirm for me the number of men that were to be executed?"

"Ninety-four."

"That's what I thought. Yet here is a ninety-fifth."

Rhodes regarded them thoughtfully. But now Stane, too, had been drawn in by the discussion, and he appeared less than impressed. "So the original count was off," he said sharply. "Ninety men or a hundred, what difference does it make? All were rebels against the crown, and all were punished for it."

Perhaps Stane's own soldiers found him intimidating enough, but Brother Henry did not answer to a secular authority, and was angered by such callous dismissal of a life. "Not all! Not this man. Whether or not the hangings were justice, they were at least sanctioned. But this man was not executed -- he was murdered. Look!" With little enough patience, Henry showed the two captains the evidence that they had just themselves uncovered, and walked them through the implications. "Were there any you hanged whose hands were unbound?"

"No," Rhodes said firmly. "And moreover, I witnessed all. I could not tell you names, but I saw the face of every man we executed. I considered it my duty. But I do not recognize this one."

"That means nothing," Stane scoffed. "There were too many for you to remember clearly." But despite this, he couldn't help his gaze from straying again to the dead man's neck, to his hands, the clear signs that this one had not died in the same manner as the others. "And again, I say: what difference does it make? There is nothing to be gained by making such a tale public. Let the dead rest, and leave be."

Henry could feel Erik tense angrily beside him, and saw the same distaste mirrored on Armando's face. But surprisingly, it was Captain Rhodes who spoke. "Do you recognize this man, Obadiah?"

"Of course not."

"Neither do these good brothers, or their friend," Rhodes said implacably. "And they were familiar with the men of the town. This one might not even be of the Empress's party. What if he was an envoy to King Anthony? Slain before he could reach us? We cannot dismiss it as a possibility. I do not like," he added, iron will in his tone, "that some common cutthroat covered up his crime beneath the bodies of those _I_ had lawfully executed. I will not be party to murder, and neither will the king."

Stane glared at him, but Rhodes led his own command, and reported directly to Anthony. He could not be ordered about. "If that's true -- that some felon tried to pass his victim off as one among many -- how would he even have known that the many would be there?"

"The whole town knew that by nightfall." It was the first Erik had spoken to them, and his voice was rich with scorn. His patience had apparently worn thin. "You cut them from the walls to fall like so much rubbish into a ditch. This was a deed done by night; no great difficulty to add one more corpse to the pile." He folded his arms across his chest and said no more, but the judgment was plain in his face.

Fortunately, Armando was long used to smoothing over the feathers his friend invariably ruffled. "You already planned to cry through the town that these unfortunates might all be claimed by their families, and taken home for private burials," he said, "and all to your credit. It shows great mercy, to give any who come free passage in and out, with no need to fear for themselves simply because their kin fought on the losing side. All you need do is add that there is one other here who has not been identified, and that all are invited to come and view him, and hopefully restore at least his name to him. Then, if he can be claimed, you have delivered your soul. And if not, you can rest knowing that you have done all you can. It would be a Christian kindness."

Beside him, Erik snorted faintly. He never much cared for such pious homilies. Henry just held his breath and prayed that it would be enough.

"Consider it done," Rhodes said. His tone dared Stane to contradict him. But Stane simply shook his head and walked away, tacitly allowing it. With a satisfied nod, Rhodes turned back to Henry. "If all is ready? Good. I will make it known."

* * *

The news was soon cried through town and Foregate that the king had granted warranty to any and all to come and claim their kin for burial without fear of penalty, and also that there was one unknown man in need of a name. Slowly at first, and then in increasing numbers, the people came. And to his credit, Stane absented himself entirely from the proceedings, so as not to cause undue consternation among those still wary of the king's disfavor; no tally was kept of those who came, and none were hindered or questioned in any way. The guard, under Remy LeBeau's command, remained unobtrusive.

Brother Henry had positioned himself with the murdered man in a quiet corner close to the entrance to the ward, so that any who came in might look upon him and, hopefully, give him a name. He had long since dismissed the rest of the crew who had assisted him with the dead earlier in the day, but Armando remained here in the ward. He had known most of the garrison by face if not by name, and was best suited to assist the arriving family members in locating their fallen kin. Besides, his was a curious nature, and he'd learn far more by staying here than at the abbey gatehouse.

Erik also stayed with them, though he kept his reasons to himself. Well, Armando reflected, Erik had always burned against the various injustices of the world; he seemed to be taking this murder to heart. Stranger though the victim might be, here was one at least who would see him avenged.

Two, rather, Armando thought, as Henry intercepted yet another visitor with a plea to come examine the unknown man. _Or three, counting myself, though there's little enough I can do about it!_

Armando and Erik stood a short distance away from Henry, not wanting to intimidate any who might wish to view his charge. Their chosen place was nearer to the doorway, so that they could be of help to any visitors needing a guide, but still close enough to observe the reactions to the murdered man. Any clue to his identity would be welcome.

"Looks like Captain Rhodes was as good as his word," Armando remarked, as several more grim-faced townsfolk entered in search of their soldiers. "Strange world we live in, where a mercenary is more trustworthy than the king's own general!"

"Sounds about right," was Erik's cynical response. He shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. "Stane certainly wasn't pleased with our discovery. 'Let the dead rest,' indeed!" He frowned. "Does he have a personal stake in it, I wonder?"

Armando sighed. "It's an inconvenience to him, that's all. He doesn't strike me as being particularly tolerant of such things."

"If he finds _justice_ so inconvenient, perhaps he shouldn't be the man meting it out."

"Well, just be grateful that he'll be leaving us when the king does. It's LeBeau that's said to be staying on as sheriff to command the garrison." Armando nodded in LeBeau's direction, and Erik turned to look him over.

Armando knew little about Remy LeBeau. He was rather young for the post of sheriff-designate, being only about thirty, but he was said to be a talented officer and quite proficient in a fight. His men said he was fair-minded and tended to turn a blind eye toward minor infractions -- he enjoyed a throw of the dice himself to while away the time -- which would make a welcome change in a sheriff after the ham-fisted Cain Marko. LeBeau seemed friendly enough now, bantering lightly with his men while remaining respectful of those visitors now mourning their dead. He had been among the first to come see Henry's murdered man, though he hadn't been able to identify him. "No," he'd said, shaking his head solemnly. "I've never seen this face. Such a pity! What harm could so young a squire have done, to have earned such bitter enmity?"

It was a good question.

Now, though, LeBeau stared at the entryway with a sudden, startled frown. Armando and Erik both turned to follow his gaze. A lady stepped into the inner ward, her face pale and resolute. Armando recognized her at once from the abbey guest house: Moira MacTaggert, accompanied by another of the abbey's guests.

"Charles?" Erik muttered under his breath. "What is _he_ doing here?"

Armando shot him a curious glance. What business could Erik have had with Charles Xavier? Armando had found the man to be pleasant enough, a model guest. And no great surprise to see anyone here today, given the circumstances. So why did Erik seem so discomfited by it?

"Moira -- my lady, should you be here?" LeBeau strode forward to intercept the pair before the lady could enter further. In truth, he seemed far more distressed than she. "You should not have to witness so grim a spectacle! I can't imagine why Master Xavier would see fit to bring you," he added, with a thunderous look at Charles.

Charles appeared undisturbed by his displeasure. "Word came to the guest house that all were free to enter, to see to their kin," he said mildly. "Mistress MacTaggert wished to come. Her business is her own. She allowed me to accompany her, so that she might conduct it safely."

"They said there was a man that no one knew." Moira seemed quite capable of speaking for herself. "I felt it my duty to see if I might put a name to him. And I myself have a brother who fought for the Empress, whose whereabouts are yet unknown to me. If he is here, I must know."

Although clearly unhappy about it, LeBeau did not attempt to dissuade her further. Instead, he offered up his arm, which she took delicately. "If you feel you must," LeBeau sighed. "Let me show you to him."

Charles wasn't offended at being so summarily displaced. He followed a few paces behind them, looking about the ward somberly. His expression lightened when he caught sight of Armando and Erik, and he diverted in his path to greet them.

"Brother Armando! This is a rather different sort of porter's duty." He did not quite smile, in deference to the solemnity of the situation, but his eyes crinkled up at the edges. "But all the more necessary, I'd imagine. And Erik, hello again."

Erik only gave him a terse nod. Well, that wasn't strange, for Erik. Armando was accustomed to speaking for them both. "We try to help where we can. Is there one here you're seeking?"

"No, not at all," Charles said. "I'm only here accompanying the lady, as long as she has need of me. Though perhaps she's found a more favorable escort!" He nodded toward LeBeau, who was indeed attending Moira most solicitously as she spoke with Henry. "I'll have a look at your unknown soldier myself, just in case. I knew some of the men of the garrison once -- perhaps I'll be able to put a name to him."

"He was no soldier," Erik said abruptly, and somewhat unexpectedly. "He was unarmed when we found him, dressed for riding, not fighting, and was certainly not of the garrison."

Charles looked up at him sharply. "What? You're telling me that he was not in the battle yesterday?"

"Not as far as we know," Armando put in, when Erik clearly would have said no more. "That's why we're asking all to view him -- he's not known to any here. But whether he was a soldier or no, it's almost certain that he did not fight here."

Charles was still regarding Erik with a curious intensity. He shook his head, as if to clear it. "Then I had best go see if I can name him."

But neither Charles nor Moira were able to identify the stranger.

"He's so young!" Moira said sadly, looking down at him. "About my brother's age, but there the resemblance ends. Thank God!"

"Then surely you have now done your duty, as you said," LeBeau told her, patting her hand. "Come, let me escort you away from this place! So lovely a lady should not surround herself with death."

Something in Moira's expression hardened at that. Armando wondered if LeBeau even noticed; Charles certainly did, stepping closer as if preparing to intercede if necessary. Unlikely friends, those two; but then, chance companions met while traveling can develop a strange and rapid sort of intimacy, as Armando well knew. And they were of similar age and social status, this unwed lady new to her inheritance and the attractive lord of a nearby manor. Perhaps LeBeau was not her only hopeful suitor.

"Not yet," she said firmly. "No, this is not Kevin, but that doesn't mean he is not here. How can I know unless I look at them all?" She deliberately extracted herself from LeBeau's light grasp, turning away from both men as her gaze lit upon Armando instead. "Brother Armando! You have been most helpful at the abbey, and I would not interrupt Brother Henry's vigil. Perhaps you could show me where the men of my brother's age and coloring might rest?"

"Of course," Armando said, inwardly amused at being selected as the safest option amongst these various menfolk. Just as well it wasn't Henry -- he handled himself well enough amongst the few women he interacted with due to his work with medicines, usually the ill or elderly, but that poor sheltered lad never had learned how to talk to a pretty lady. Armando might have willingly forsworn the fairer sex when he took his vows, but at least they didn't terrify him!

They walked slowly together through the ward, stopping at each gently prepared body so that Moira might look for herself. "Might I ask, brother," she said, likely as a distraction, "how did you come to be in this place? Your name sounds more Castilian than English."

Armando lifted an eyebrow. "And yours Scottish, Mistress MacTaggert, yet here we both are."

That startled a laugh out of her, at least. "True enough! I apologize for my rudeness."

"I take no offense," Armando told her with a smile. "Yes, I was born in Toledo. But I don't think it was my _name_ that seemed most outlandish to you."

"No. Again I apologize. You have been nothing but kind. I was only curious."

Fortunately, Armando was accustomed to such curiosity, which was usually accompanied by far less civility. He thought of Bobby's questions the day before and smiled. "My mother was Castilian, and raised me in the Catholic faith. My father was a Moroccan trader. The road that brought me to Shrewsbury was long and unexpected, but I have found a home here. And you?"

She gave him a small but genuine smile. "A fair trade. My grandfather was a Scotsman who married a Norman lady with lands here in Shropshire. Their elder son inherited the Scottish lands and titles; the younger, my father, the English. Which now fall to me in my brother's absence." Her face grew grave again. "I very much hope that I do not find him here."

But only a few paces later, she did. She stopped abruptly, and all the color drained from her face. "Oh, Kevin," she whispered. Apart from that, she gave no outcry.

Remy LeBeau, who had been following close behind, immediately rushed forward to brace her. Not that Armando thought she needed it -- Moira MacTaggert was not a woman who seemed prone to swooning. She hardly appeared to notice LeBeau's presence at all as she knelt quietly beside her brother's body, and took his cold hand in hers.

"By God, I am sorry!" LeBeau said, and indeed he looked nearly as stricken as she. "I did not know -- I would have saved him for you, if only I had known!"

"How could you have?" Moira replied. Her voice was distant. "He chose his fate like all these others, and went to meet it. There was no undoing that."

Armando had withdrawn discreetly by this point, though remaining close enough to assist if she should need him. He found Erik beside him again, likely having followed out of human curiosity, and Captain Rhodes happened to be near as well. Armando gave the captain a polite nod. Rhodes had done well by them this morning.

"A pity, that," Rhodes said in a low tone, watching Moira come to terms with her brother's death. "I remember this one. He was one of the first to hang." He shook his head. "Some faced their deaths with dignity, or defiance. Not this poor lad. He went kicking and shouting the whole way to the noose, protesting that there was some mistake, that he had been promised his life."

"No reason for the lady to know her brother was a coward," Erik said, just as quietly. "Let her believe he faced death bravely."

Rhodes shrugged. "It takes some in that way," he remarked, with no judgment in his tone, only dispassionate assessment. "They deny the reality of their own deaths until they have no breath left. It doesn't make him a coward, just young and alone and frightened."

They watched in silence for some minutes, as Moira shook off the chill stillness of her shock and began visibly pulling herself back together. Not that she'd ever truly fallen apart, not here. Perhaps later, in private, with no other eyes upon her. As she rose, LeBeau was there to help her, his hand at her elbow. Charles Xavier, too, remained in attendance, though he kept a respectful distance. To Armando it seemed that he was content to remain until Moira either had need of him or chose to dismiss him.

"Thank you," Moira said, her voice still sounding like it came from somewhere very far away. She looked up, seeking out Armando once more. "Brother, I thank you -- and Brother Henry -- for all you have done for Kevin, and for all those here. It could not have been easy for any of you." Her attention turned back to LeBeau. "May I take Kevin away for burial?"

"Of course," LeBeau told her, overflowing with obvious sympathy. "I can have my men convey him wherever you choose. I would go with you myself, but I cannot leave my duties here--"

"Of course not, I understand." Moira turned to Charles. "You need not accompany us either, Master Xavier. I am sorry to have kept you from your own business for so long."

"It is no trouble at all," Charles said gently. "And I am happy to remain at your service, if there's anything I can do to assist."

A pale impression of a smile passed across her face. "If you will. My family has a tomb at a church here in town…"

As they began quietly discussing the arrangements to be made, Rhodes once more leaned in to Armando to share confidence. "The lady should be wary of that one. I can't get a good read on Charles Xavier, but one thing I do know: he's here to hunt for his betrothed, and _she's_ not the girl intended for him."

Erik, brooding at Armando's other side, jerked his head up sharply at that. "What do you mean, his betrothed?"

"Lord Holme's only daughter," Rhodes said, "who's been missing since before the castle fell. She's affianced to Xavier. And the King wants her found, and will place quite a high reward on the finding."

* * *

The monks were requested to return to the abbey for Vespers, so late in the afternoon, they reluctantly left their post in the hands of LeBeau and his guards. Henry would have rather stayed all night if need be, but as Armando pointed out, few townsfolk were likely to come by once evening fell, and their mystery corpse would remain unharmed until the morning.

Erik accompanied them in the walk back through the town to the Foregate, having no reason to remain behind without them. Henry suspected he'd be lingering in the gatehouse with Armando well into the night. An odd, taciturn fellow, Erik: he could go weeks without seeking company, surly and abrasive toward any who came near, and yet turn very nearly charming when he so chose, compelling with his personal magnetism. But no matter his moods, he was a man one could rely upon in need.

They had hardly stepped through the abbey gates when another monk, the master of the novices, came bearing down upon Henry, all aflutter. He was towing young Bobby Drake behind him with an iron grip around the boy's wrist.

"Brother Henry! Glad I am to see you back. Do you know what your helper has been up to this past night?" Brother Paul was a kind man, and a good mother hen to his young charges, but could be quite the fury when roused. Henry flinched back reflexively. It was not so many years since that he himself had been a novice under Paul's instruction. "No, of course you would not, having more important work at hand. Far more important than chasing after this imp!" Paul gave Bobby's arm a sharp shake, though Bobby seemed more amused than abashed. At Henry's back, Erik was nearly shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Why, what has he done?" Henry asked, since it was clearly expected of him. Honestly, he couldn't begin to guess. Bobby was a quick and enthusiastic lad, but hadn't shown any more signs of mischief than were usual for a boy his age. He gave his political opinions a shade too freely, perhaps. Could that have somehow gotten him in trouble, now that King Anthony's forces had won the town?

"He was missing from his bed all night!" Paul glared down at the boy. "And none of us noticed until we didn't see him at breakfast, and got the hunt started. Then he turns right back up again with the crowd after Mass, as though he'd never been gone at all! And won't give me a word of explanation for it!"

Bobby shrugged, staring at the ground.

Paul let out a huff of exasperation, and thrust him at Henry. "Here, you see what you can get out of him. I need to corral the rest of my herd, I don't want to waste another minute on an ungrateful boy who thinks it's funny to raise a hue and cry all about the brotherhood--"

"I didn't mean to!" Bobby protested. "I just needed some space to myself, that's all, after--" His voice cracked, and he looked away again. Henry felt a rush of sympathy. He might have lost friends yesterday. One could understand his desire for solitude.

From his face, Paul also sympathized with the boy, though he could never say it aloud. "I leave him in your hands, Henry," was all he said. "If you can manage him this evening?"

Henry heard what went unsaid as well. Paul was no harsh master, but some of their superiors were, and would look askance at leniency. By taking the responsibility for his truant assistant out of Paul's hands, Henry would be in a better position to protect Bobby from worse punishment.

"Of course," he assured them. Satisfied, Paul bustled away with a nod and one last reproachful glare at Bobby.

They stood in silence a few moments, regarding each other warily. "That was very thoughtless of you," Henry said at last, trying to sound authoritative and probably failing utterly. "Where _did_ you take yourself off to, overnight? I promise I won't tell Paul."

"Just...around," Bobby said vaguely. "Henry, is it true, what they're saying? That there was a murdered man among those lawfully executed, who none know?"

Henry blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in topic. "Yes, it's true. I've been at the castle all day, hoping someone might put a name to him, but without luck so far. And we can't afford to wait long, in this heat. We're burying the rest tomorrow."

"Take me to him! Please?" Bobby's demeanour had shifted in an instant, his eyes lit with a strange, desperate fire. "I need to see -- I mean, anything is possible. Shouldn't I look, just in case? It's wrong to bury him all unknown!"

"Not tonight," Henry said, somewhat at a loss. "It's nearly time for Vespers, and I'm to keep a close watch on you--"

"I'll take him," Erik said unexpectedly. To be honest, Henry had forgotten he was still there. At Henry's surprised look, he added, "The guards there know me well enough by now, they won't question my returning. And besides, this one looks as though he'll just run off again if you refuse him."

Bobby looked away, torn between rebellion and guilt, and Erik smiled wryly. "That's what I thought. I can keep him in hand for an hour or so, and deliver him safely back to you by bedtime. He's not taking any vows, it matters little if he misses the service."

"Oh, all right, then," Henry sighed. He never was good at wrangling children, anyway. "If Bobby somehow _does_ know the man, I would be grateful for the information. And they'll expect me to deny him his supper tonight by way of punishment, so no one will be looking for him until Compline. But you'd best have him back by then, or Paul will have _my_ head for it as well as his!"

* * *

Their walk back to the castle was mostly in silence. Bobby kept sneaking sidelong glances at Erik, as though uncertain whether to be grateful or wary of him, and Erik kept his own counsel. In truth, he couldn't say what had motivated his offer to escort the boy. Curiosity, partly. It had been a long, strange day; might as well embrace the oddity and see where it took him. But something in Bobby's wild desperation had struck a deeper chord in Erik. He knew how it felt to be driven by one's own demons.

The boy wouldn't give him a straight answer if Erik asked where he'd been the night before. So he didn't. Instead, as they made their way through the town, Erik asked: "Why are you so sure you know this murdered man?"

"I'm not!" Bobby said at once. "At least, I hope I'm not. I don't want it to be. But until I see him, how can I be certain?" His voice was raw with anguish. 

"I understand," Erik told him quietly. "Not knowing is worse sometimes. Better to see and have done with it, one way or the other."

Bobby hugged himself tightly, and said nothing.

It was still early enough in the evening that they passed numerous other townsfolk on the streets. For better or worse, the siege had lifted, and the town was beginning to breathe again. A church near the castle had just ended its own service, and was now releasing its small cluster of worshippers out into the warm evening air.

Among them was one Erik now had good reason to recognize.

"Erik, good evening to you," Charles called out. Bobby shrank back behind Erik, startled by the intrusion upon the wary peace that had fallen between them.

"Charles," Erik greeted him curtly. "I did not expect to see you in town so late."

Charles shrugged, a shadow passing across his face. "It's been a long day. I'm waiting to see Moira safely back to the abbey, once she's finished laying her brother to rest." He nodded toward the church. "It won't be much longer. She wanted a few moments alone with him."

Erik couldn't help but recall Rhodes's words from earlier in the day. _Kicking and shouting the whole way to the noose…_ He shook his head to clear it. "A great pity that she should find him thus. I'm sure she's very grateful for your...assistance."

"I don't do it for gratitude, or out of pity," Charles said, his tone unexpectedly sharp. "She's a good person who doesn't deserve this tragedy. But none of them did," he added, his gaze turning distant. "Poor fellows. Any news yet on your odd man out?"

"Not yet," Erik said. "Soon, I hope."

"Good luck," Charles told him sincerely. He glanced down at Bobby, and his lips quirked into half a smile. "And to your young friend, as well, whatever his own endeavours tonight!"

Erik gave him a nod, as politely as he could manage, and continued on up the road to the castle.

He still wasn't sure what to make of Charles Xavier. The man was too friendly for a near stranger; Erik distrusted such over-familiarity, so unearned. And his questions at the workshop had been strangely probing, to no purpose that Erik could fathom. Then add in Rhodes's confidence earlier in the day -- _the lady should be wary of that one._

Well, Erik certainly was. Perhaps the others had been focused solely on Moira MacTaggert and her grief for her brother. But Erik had noticed Charles looking oddly askance at Remy LeBeau, so solicitous by her side, and not how a man might regard an irritating romantic rival. He'd appeared -- perturbed, somehow. Erik couldn't quite put a name to it. It left an uneasy sensation in his gut.

His preoccupation carried them the rest of the way to the castle ward, where the guards easily admitted Erik on sight. Erik steered Bobby directly to the quiet corner where their murdered man lay, in whatever peace his God might have granted him.

Bobby said nothing. He didn't have to. The abrupt tightening of his grip on Erik's arm was all the eloquence he needed.

After a long moment, Erik simply nodded and led the boy away.

Neither of them spoke until they had emerged again from the castle ward, and were back on the town cobblestones. Erik led them away from the main streets, choosing instead the quieter byroads that hugged the town walls where they might have some degree of privacy.

"Name him," Erik finally said.

Bobby cleared his throat, and scrubbed a hand across his face. In the deepening twilight, Erik hadn't even realized that he'd been crying. "John Allerdyce," Bobby said hoarsely. "He wasn't a local man, there are few here who might have known him."

"But you did."

Bobby nodded.

"How?"

At that, Bobby hesitated, his eyes going wide and watchful in the shadows.

Erik let out an exasperated breath. "Boy, the truth must out eventually. You knew this was the man you'd find. What do you know of him?"

"I didn't know for sure," Bobby managed, grudgingly. "And it might not have -- there was another -- oh, I don't know!" he cried out, voice ringing suddenly against the stone walls. "I'm sorry," he said, much quieter this time. "This is all...I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I can say."

"Start with where you knew him from."

Bobby took in a deep breath, then let it out. He stared down at the ground as he walked. If it was easier not to look Erik in the eye, that was fine. Whatever he needed to get his story told. "I didn't know him well. He was a courier in Lord Holme's service, I only met him a handful of times. I -- my father was in Holme's service as well, before…"

Erik remembered what Henry had first told him about Bobby, in the abbey herbarium: _orphaned_. "I understand. But why did you expect to find him here?"

Bobby just shrugged helplessly. "John always wanted to be in the thick of things. Of course he'd be here. I admired him," he admitted, sounding very much the child. "He was...not kind, exactly, but he didn't mind my asking questions about the war, and he even showed me a few tricks with a sword. And he never spoke down to me, just because I'm -- just because I'm _young_." He spat out the word like a curse, and wasn't it indeed, for so many of his age? Too old to be coddled, not old enough to be taken seriously. But Erik heard the hitch in breath between words, and wondered what Bobby had first meant to say, before thinking better of it. Gifted, perhaps?

And Bobby hadn't answered his question, had he? Not really. For whatever reason, earlier that day, Bobby had heard news of a man murdered, a man no one seemed to know, and immediately thought of this John Allerdyce.

Erik regarded the boy closely, but Bobby seemed lost in his own thoughts, hardly even aware of his surroundings. Well, let him be for now. Let him sleep on it, and perhaps he'd be more forthcoming in the morning.

They were at the abbey gatehouse. Erik delivered the boy back into the monks' care, and took himself home instead of lingering to chat with Armando. They and Henry would discuss the matter tomorrow, when all were refreshed and ready to deal with the many new questions raised by young Bobby Drake.

And one particular question, as yet unvoiced, to which Erik was beginning to think he might already have the answer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raven has a role to play.

Early in the morning, Erik poked his head in at the doorway to Henry's herbarium. He found both Henry and young Bobby within. Henry had set the boy to work cutting up leaves and stems off various herbs to hang in clumps to dry under the eaves of the hut, and was rattling off a rather haphazard series of instructions, by the sound of it.

"Erik? Well timed," Henry said, interrupting himself mid-sentence as he turned to the door. Bobby ducked his head down to his work to hide a grin. "I was hoping you'd stop by. Do you mind taking charge of Bobby again for an hour or so? I need to make another trip to the castle."

"I don't need a minder," Bobby groused.

Hank levelled him a glare. "According to Brother Paul, you do, and I'm not leaving you unaccompanied in the meantime." To Erik, he added, "I'll bring him to Armando otherwise, but he's of no use to me kicking his heels in the gatehouse when I've got actual work that needs doing here."

"That's fine," Erik assured him. He glanced between the two. "Has he told you, then?"

"About John Allerdyce? Yes. It's not much, but at least the poor lad gets a name on his grave now." Henry sighed. "I've been summoned to the royal presence. Apparently King Anthony has been told of our murdered man, and is taking a personal interest in the case. Well, since all we have is a name, there's nothing to which the king can take exception. He may yet give us his blessing to proceed with this investigation."

Bobby continued diligently chopping his leaves at the table in the middle of the herbarium, to all appearances intent only on his work, but the tips of his ears flushed pink. Erik suspected there was still plenty more the lad knew about John Allerdyce's business in Shrewsbury. Well, that was why Erik was here.

"Have fun," he told Henry drily. "Quite the honor, for a simple Benedictine brother to meet a king."

Henry rolled his eyes. "One I'd rather forego, thanks all the same. But we all have our own crosses to bear. Was there something you needed, before I head out?"

Erik waved him off. "Nothing that won't keep, since Bobby's told you the man's identity. We'll talk once the king releases you."

"You really don't mind? I know I'm leaving you at loose ends in here--"

"I can keep myself busy," Erik replied. He had a pack slung over his shoulder, which he now dropped to the emptier side of the table, across from Bobby and his piles of plants. Inside the pack was Charles's broken bridle. He could work on it here just as well as in his own workshop, and having anticipated a lengthy conversation, had brought it along to keep his hands busy while they spoke. It was a simple repair that would need little concentration, and he'd promised to have it done by that afternoon, after all.

Seeing it, Henry nodded approval -- it wasn't the first time Erik had done light metalwork while they passed the time together. He gave Bobby a few more further instructions, then set out for the castle, pulling the workshop door shut behind him.

For a time, Erik ignored Bobby completely, setting his mind to his own task. The bit would need to be replaced entirely -- he'd brought along scraps of iron for it -- and the boss needed a delicate touch to repair properly.

Before long, he realized that Bobby was watching him across the table with avid curiosity.

"Sorry!" Bobby said, caught staring. He hastily returned to his chopping and sorting. "I've never seen a Gift like yours, is all."

Erik kept his own eyes on his work, welding the scrap metal together with the old to form the new bit. The bridle spun slowly, suspended in the air before him as he examined it critically from all angles. "But you've seen others, surely."

"Only a few," Bobby said after a moment's hesitation. "And mostly warriors' Gifts, suited only for fighting."

"It's a rare Gift indeed that can only be used to one purpose," Erik remarked blandly. "I once thought my touch for metal was only good for battle, myself. I've since learned better."

Bobby hunched his shoulders forward and frowned down at his herbs, considering it.

"I've not asked yet, if you're Gifted," Erik added, trying to keep his tone gentle. He never paused in his subtle manipulations of the bit. "Nor what form that Gift might take."

Bobby looked over at him uncertainly. "No, you haven't."

"Nor has Henry, nor Armando. Have they?"

"No."

"We'd hoped that you might grow accustomed to us -- any one of us -- at your own pace. That you might eventually be willing to confide it freely. I would have put money on Armando," Erik added, with a wry smile. "He has a way with him, and Gifted youngsters in the town are often brought to him to learn to control their powers. But I'm afraid you're stuck with me instead." He twisted his hand, and the repaired bridle landed softly on the table. He'd go over it again later, but that would do for now. "If you want to avenge your friend's murder, you'll need to tell me all you know of him. You've only told us half a story so far, and that won't help us solve this riddle. So no more hiding, Bobby."

Bobby closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he nodded jerkily. "I am. I'm Gifted."

"I know," Erik said, not unkindly. "And I believe I know what your powers are, as well. Shall I guess, and you can tell me yes or no?"

When Bobby just stared at him, face pale, Erik nodded to himself. He was all but certain now.

"You're a shapeshifter. A very talented one. And your real name isn't Bobby Drake, is it? It's Raven Holme."

She swallowed hard. To her credit, she made no attempt to deny it. Her eyes -- Bobby's eyes -- flickered to the open shutters. Understanding, Erik reached out and tugged them shut by the iron in their hinges. That closed out the bright morning daylight, so he lit one of the many oil lamps Henry kept about the place so that they could see each other properly.

Raven sighed. The lamplight caught the glint of something bright and blue, washing across Bobby's body like ripples in a pond, and then a young woman sat across the table from him in a simple brown dress, dark blonde hair flowing freely down past her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed gold for a moment, then settled into a cool hazel-gray. She appeared several years older than her guise of Bobby Drake; well, Armando had said she was eighteen. Just barely a woman grown.

"I thought I was so careful," she said ruefully. "How did you know?"

Erik looked her over. So this was the shape Lord Holme's only child preferred. She was certainly comely enough. Even so, he wondered if it was her true natural form, or if this was yet another mask Raven wore.

"You made no one particular mistake," he reassured her. "But any number of hints, oddities -- they all just came together, all at once. Your sudden arrival at the abbey, just when Holme's daughter was said to be hidden away somewhere in the town. Words you cut off mid-sentence to correct yourself. Your eyes -- do you realize, you slip a little, when you speak in passion? I thought at first I was being fanciful, but they really do flash like fire. Even your name: Raven, beloved of Saint Benedict the Gifted. You must have showed different from birth to be named that way. And then Charles Xavier -- you shrank away from him, when we met by chance in the town. I thought little of it at the time, but then I remembered: he's supposed to be your betrothed, but now has declared for the other side of this war."

"It's worse than that," she said, her eyes intent. "Don't you know yet? He's Gifted, too, but in the worst possible way. He's like the Empress -- he's a telepath."

That brought Erik up short. Charles already made him uneasy enough; the possibility that the man was Gifted as well had never so much as crossed Erik's mind. More fool he: Erik knew better than most that not all Gifts showed in a person's outward form.

"That certainly puts what I already know of the man into a new perspective," Erik said, thinking back through every interaction he'd had with Charles. "Do you know how strong his Gift is? I've known others of that ilk in the past."

Raven shrugged, grimacing. "Strong enough. I know he can hear thoughts from some distance -- he doesn't need to be touching you to listen in, and if he did, you'd never be the wiser. I've heard tales that he can even compel a person to do his will, though those may just be servants' gossip. I've never witnessed such. But I certainly believe it's possible. He's never been a cruel man, that I know of," she added, almost reluctantly. "He was only kind to me as a child, and I never heard of him so much as mistreating a servant. But it's been several years since I last saw him, and he's sworn for Anthony the Usurper now, God only knows why."

"War changes a person," Erik remarked. "The Flemish captain mentioned that he was here hunting his betrothed. Finding you would certainly earn Charles Xavier the king's favor. Do you think he recognized you, last night?"

"I don't know." Raven's face was pale and grim. "He had no reason to suspect Bobby Drake, and he can't listen to everyone at all times. But the sooner I can get away from Shrewsbury, the sooner I'll be free of him."

Erik regarded her thoughtfully. "You tried, didn't you? The night before last, when you disappeared and threw all the monks into a tizzy about it. But then why did you come back?" He put the timeline together, and realized: "John Allerdyce. The murdered man, your own father's courier. You knew he must be the nameless corpse in the castle. He died that same night."

"He was set upon before I could reach him," she whispered. "I was forced to turn back -- I had no horse, no provisions, no money -- I didn't know where else to go but back here to the abbey! Alex shoved me away and yelled at me to run--"

"I think," Erik said slowly, "for your sake and Allerdyce's, that it's time you told me all you know."

* * *

Brother Henry's interview with King Anthony had gone about as well as he could have hoped. The king was no more familiar with the name John Allerdyce than Henry had been, but nevertheless expressed outrage that a footpad had committed murder within his royal writ, and furthermore had attempted to cover up the crime by casting the body amongst the crown's lawfully executed enemies. It was as Captain Rhodes had predicted: King Anthony was deeply affronted to be made party to murder, and gave Henry permission to pursue any enquiries he chose in order to bring the killer to justice.

Henry was exceedingly glad that Obadiah Stane would not be the individual relied upon to mete out said justice, should it in fact come to pass; the king's advisor did not appear to agree with his sovereign that the matter was worth pursuing, though he said nothing during their brief discussion. Instead, any evidence Henry might find would be brought in due course to the new sheriff, Remy LeBeau, who was a far more receptive audience. Indeed, LeBeau even walked Henry back to the abbey, chatting with him amiably, though Henry made it clear that he had no further information as yet on the unfortunate John Allerdyce beyond his name.

Perhaps LeBeau had another motivation for the trip to the abbey; he parted from Henry at the gate in order to pay a call on Moira MacTaggert, who had been installed with her servants in one of the abbey's grace houses along the mill pond. Henry, glancing at the sun's position in the sky, reflected that LeBeau might well hope his visit would be timed such that he could then naturally accompany her to Mass, thus extending his opportunities for courtship. Well, why not? The lady had just lost her brother; she might well take comfort in the attentions of so personable a man as Remy LeBeau.

As he made his way back to his herbarium, Henry idly wondered what his lot in life might have been, had the parents he no longer remembered not given him to the Church so young. Would he have found himself a soldier in the king or empress's service? Quite possible, with his Gifts, though his temperament would have been more suited to a clerk's profession. He'd likely even be courting himself, at this age. It was a strange and almost laughable thought. What sort of girl would ever fancy _him_?

Thank God it would never matter, he decided. He was much more comfortable with his books and medicines anyway. 

So when he pushed open the herbarium door, the sight of a very pretty young woman seated across the worktable from Erik was startling, to say the least.

"Oh!" Henry said, blinking. "I'm sorry, my lady. I wasn't expecting -- er, was there something you needed?"

He didn't recognize her as a guest of the abbey, or of the town or Foregate, but that meant little enough. It wasn't unusual for a stranger to stop by his workshop in search of some medicine or salve.

The young lady seemed just as startled by Henry's appearance. She looked uncertainly to Erik, as though seeking reassurance there.

"You knew you'd have to tell him eventually," Erik said, which made no sense whatsoever. "Henry deserves the truth."

"I -- what?" Henry asked, utterly at sea.

Erik rolled his eyes and waved a hand. The door swung shut again behind Henry with a firm thud, narrowly missing his shoulder. "Brother Henry, meet Raven Holme," he said, before Henry could sputter out a protest. "You've already been acquainted, of course. Raven?"

Raven Holme -- why did he recognize that name? -- sighed. "I didn't realize you were prone to theatrics," she said reprovingly. "This was supposed to be kept secret!"

"Not from Henry," Erik retorted. "Not after all he's done for you already. Do you want our help or not?"

Raven shook her head, more out of resignation than rejection, and turned back to Henry. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I didn't mean to lie to you. But I didn't know if there was anyone I could trust."

Before he could ask what on earth they were both talking about, a curious blue ripple passed across Raven's skin and clothing, and then Bobby was sitting in her place.

Hank's mouth dropped open, stupidly.

"I'm not really Bobby Drake," his assistant told him, in Bobby's familiar young voice. "There's no such person. My name is Raven Holme -- I'm Dirk Holme's only child. I'm a hunted hostage, thanks to the king's orders, and a burden to anyone who befriends me. And yes, I knew John Allerdyce because he was my father's trusted man, and had been my best hope of escaping Shrewsbury until his murder the night before last."

"She's also Gifted, as we suspected," Erik pointed out with a grin.

After a few moments, Hank remembered to close his mouth. He dropped down onto the bench beside Erik. "Right," he said faintly. "I can see that."

"Would you be more comfortable if I stay Bobby for now?" Bobby -- _Raven_ asked. She'd apparently got over her initial fright, because her eyes glittered with something like mischief. "Or if you prefer…"

That blue ripple again, and Henry was staring himself in the face, rumpled habit and windblown hair ringing his tonsure and all.

"Anything but that!" he blurted out. Did he really look like _that_? Monks had little use for mirrors.

Raven-Henry laughed, then shifted back into the form of the pretty girl she'd been when he walked in. "Sorry. Had to try it on at least once."

Erik shook his head. "If you've had your fun…"

"Yes, I'm sorry," Raven said again, sobering. "It's just been...strange, hiding as a thirteen-year-old boy for so long. I was afraid I'd get stuck like that!"

"You might yet, if you can't get out of Shrewsbury," Erik pointed out. "So if you want our help, I'd suggest you start by telling Brother Henry exactly what you've told me." He glanced up at Henry, then to the closed shutters, frowning. "It must be nearly time for Mass, though. Damn."

Henry considered it a moment. "I left myself enough time to sort out a few things in here before the office. We should have about half an hour until the bells -- or maybe twenty minutes, now." He looked between their two faces and nodded resolutely. "Let's have it then. If it's a new piece to the puzzle you're bringing us, my lady, then I may as well spend the service ruminating over it while the Prior drones on."

That startled a laugh out of her. "You're a rather rubbish monk, aren't you?"

"It's the only reason I find him tolerable," Erik agreed, with a quicksilver grin. "All right, Raven. Be quick, but as thorough as you can."

"Right," Raven said. "I'll do my best."

* * *

_This is the tale Raven told them:_

My father left it too late to get me out of the castle. By then, King Anthony's forces had the whole town surrounded, and patrols along every road out. There was no way an escort could see me safely free. And Marko kept insisting that the castle was impregnable, that the town would never fall. He's always been...overconfident. But that's neither here nor there.

Of course, I could always break out on my own, with my Gift. It's my best defense. Not many know of my abilities -- my father and Marko, of course, and a few close friends of the family. Some trusted servants on our lands. Certainly none among Anthony's party -- so we thought! But my old nurse, Katherine Summers, she as good as raised me, and she and her husband live here in Shrewsbury now. So Father sent me to their house in town, and from there she and I devised the disguise. I would go to the abbey, as her orphaned kinsman, with a year's endowment to ward off any suspicion. Father provided the funds. To be safe, she sent me alone -- she wanted to be sure she wouldn't know what form I took, so that even if questioned, she could not describe me. I went with the money and her letter, and the abbey took me without question. And that's how Bobby Drake came to be born.

The plan was for me to remain here for as long as need be. If the Empress's faction won the day, well and good, I would return to my father in their victory. If not, I was simply to live as Bobby until Anthony's forces moved on from Shrewsbury, and eventually it would be safe enough for a courier to fetch me away. So when the castle fell...well, it was awful, of course, and I still don't know if my father -- they say he got away clean. I hope that's true.

Anyway. I was resigned to staying here, and that honestly wasn't so bad. I like being among the children, even if it is strange to play at being that age again -- but it's such freedom, being a boy, you can't even imagine! And Brother Paul is a good teacher, and you, Henry, you've been kind, so I'm learning more than I expected.

But the day of the battle, after it was all over and quiet, Charles Xavier went to visit the Summerses. He was my -- we've been betrothed since I was just a baby, our families planned it. God knows I never asked for him! But now he's gone over to the other side, and he knows about my Gift, and he's Gifted himself. I warned Erik already, but Henry, he can read minds. I don't know that you've had cause to interact with him yet, but you must try to avoid him at all costs now. He's here looking for me, and if he visited Katherine Summers he might well have overheard that I'm at the abbey, so he'll be searching here, searching through all of the monks' thoughts for any hint of me. I'm not safe here anymore. He'll take me to the king, and hold me hostage to catch my father and Marko. You can't trust him!

Alex Summers came that evening to warn me. He found me in the church at Vespers. Well, he knew I'd go to him once I saw him, anyway. We're of an age, we've been friends since childhood, his mother raised us together. He told me about Charles's visit, and that I should get out of Shropshire as soon as possible. And better yet, that there was a way out. John Allerdyce is -- _was_ one of my father's couriers. He's only just recently arrived in Shrewsbury, none here would know him, so he was sneaking away in secret that very night. He had urgent intelligence to deliver to the Empress. Don't ask me what it was, Alex didn't know and I certainly don't, but Christopher Summers had hidden him in a barn in Frankwell to wait out the battle, and he was to ride out under cover of darkness, to make for Wales and then on eventually to a ship for the Empress's court in Normandy. So I determined to go with him.

I changed into a different disguise and left church with Alex. We ran straight into Erik, actually -- gave me a fright, even though of course you couldn't have recognized me! Anyway, we couldn't go through the town -- the bridge on the other side to Frankwell would be guarded by the king's men by then, and Alex is known in the town. So we had to go the roundabout way, through the trees along the river. John wasn't supposed to set off until it was full dark, so I thought to reach him in time. But it takes so long by foot, all around that loop of the Severn -- we didn't make nearly as good time as I'd hoped. So instead of making directly for the barn where he'd been hiding all day, we decided to try to intercept John along the path he'd most likely be taking towards Wales. He'd have to avoid the main road, you see, and Alex said there's only one good forest trail that leads in that direction out of Frankwell. I don't know this area well, outside of castle and town; it's part of why I didn't dare set off alone. Well, that and I'd neither horse nor money, nor any provisions. I'm not quite so reckless as to chance all with only the skin on my back, no matter what form that skin can take!

We finally reached the trail and started walking back along it toward Frankwell, hoping John hadn't already passed us. It was full dark by then, but the skies were clear and I've got good night vision anyway, even among the trees. Alex told me there was an abandoned hut up ahead along the path where we could wait quietly -- John wouldn't have been able to ride at more than a walk on that trail, not if he valued his horse. So we should be able to intercept him without fear of his overtaking us too quickly to catch.

But when we got near the hut, we could hear a horse whickering, like it was spooked, you know? We started going faster then. There was a horse tied to a tree just outside the hut, and she kept straining and trying to pull free, circling the tree like she was desperate to get away from something. And you could see the way she stepped that there was something wrong with her foot, she'd fallen lame. Alex recognized her as the mare John was to ride. I went to her and tried to calm her -- I like horses, I'm a good rider -- and that's when I saw that there were caltrops scattered across the trail there. She must have stepped on one, poor beast. That's when we were sure something was very wrong. Caltrops, there? So far from the fighting? Why would anyone want to deliberately cripple a horse going along such a secluded path?

Alex told me to stay with the horse. We could see a light flickering through the half-open shutters of the hut, so he thought John might be within. Oh, I completely forgot to mention, didn't I? John was Gifted, too -- he could command fire. Very useful for a soldier! It's probably why he decided to take on this mission alone. His Gift made him...arrogant. He wasn't a bad man, mind, just cocky. He thought he could handle anything on his own. But I guess he couldn't.

Anyway. Alex wanted to have a look. I was tending the horse, like I said, I wasn't paying close attention, but as soon as he pushed open the door there was a shout, and Alex sent out a burst of his Gift as he staggered backward out of there. I'm surprised he didn't set the hut alight accidentally. And he screamed at me to run, to get away from there. I froze for a moment, I'm ashamed to admit; he had to come and shove me to get me going, but that was all the push I needed. I just ran back the way we had come. I heard shouting behind me, but I kept running.

When I got my wits about me, I realized that I'd be too easy to follow if I stuck to the path, so I struck out into the forest back eastward -- I was fair certain it was east, or close enough -- anything to get me back to the Severn. From there I knew I could just follow the curve of the river back here to the abbey. You have to understand, I don't know these woods well, not like Alex or John would. Or either of you, I expect. I just know how to follow either the river or the main road.

Well, I stumbled across the road first, as it turns out, and I thought that was a spot of luck until I realized the king's men would likely be patrolling it. And they were. I was nearly at the river then, thank God, so I just dove straight in. I know they spotted me -- one archer got a bolt off, but it went large, I heard it splash into the river. And I shifted shape again, into...well, a form that's more difficult to spot, especially at night. I'm a strong swimmer; most of us who grow up by the Severn learn to swim before we can walk, and my family's lands are along its banks further upriver by Montford. And the current helped pull me most of the way back toward abbey land. I dragged myself out of it in the bushes by the mill and hid in there overnight, while I tried to decide what to do next. But all I could think was to become Bobby Drake again. So I walked in as a random stranger with the townsfolk for Mass yesterday, and shifted back into Bobby when I was in the midst of the crowd. And then I discovered that Brother Paul had been tearing the place apart searching for poor Bobby in my absence! I'd hoped no one would even have noticed that I was gone.

So here I still am. But I can only change my outward appearance, Henry. Not my thoughts. And so long as Charles Xavier is a guest at the abbey, I'm in grave danger of discovery.

And I don't know who killed John, or why. Or what's become of Alex since. I honestly didn't know, Erik, which of their bodies I would find yesterday, when you brought me to look at your mystery corpse. I knew it probably wouldn't be Alex -- others in the town would have identified his body, surely. But I was so scared to see for myself. Poor John. I didn't know him well, but even so. Death in battle I can understand. But a sneak attack in the forest, at night? Who would even have known he would be there? Or was it just a random footpad who got lucky? I can't --

Oh! That's the bell for Mass. I suppose I'd best turn into Bobby again now. I'm so relieved, honestly, that you both know the truth. I do need your help to see a way out of this mess. I don't think I can do it alone.

* * *

Raven-as-Bobby joined her fellow pupils in the church for Mass, taking care to behave as boyishly and chummy as possible with the other lads. She did her best to sink into the mind of thirteen-year-old Bobby Drake, all restless energy and harmless geniality. Bobby was friendly, gregarious, and good-looking; the other boys liked him even though they didn't know him well. While he hadn't made any particular friends yet, he'd only been among them for a little over a week, and that during a tumultuous time. He was settling in as well as could be expected.

So she didn't so much as bat an eye when Charles Xavier entered the church along with several of the other abbey guests. Why would Bobby Drake bother noticing _him_?

And Charles certainly didn't seem to notice Bobby. He never so much as glanced in the direction of the boys in their corner of the church. And why should he? With all the monks and novices filling the pews, not to mention the local laity looking to put their own words in with God in the aftermath of battle, the church must seem like a hive of buzzing bees to his Gift. She should be safe enough in a crowd like this.

Once the service started, secure in Bobby's anonymity, Raven allowed herself to observe the man she had been intended to marry.

Charles hadn't changed in outward appearance since she'd last seen him at his own father's funeral two years earlier. He was the image of a proper Norman lord. By the age of fifteen, Raven had already caught up to him in height; but then, she was considered a tall woman. She'd once admired his trim form and graceful economy of movement, blushed over his bright blue eyes and soft brown hair. She had quite fancied him when she was younger, this clever, kind man; lost herself in daydreams about becoming his bride. Now she saw his genial manners as merely a mask to conceal his sharp intelligence and formidable Gift. His cleverness became cold-blooded calculation -- why else would he have turned his back on the Empress's cause, just because the fortunes of war had shifted ever so slightly? A telepath like himself, and the rightful heir to the throne? He should have been Emma Frost's champion, not a turncoat lackey scrabbling for scraps of Anthony Stark's favor! God, he _disgusted_ her now.

Not that he would notice her absence from his life. She'd always been a child to him rather than a future wife; he'd liked her well enough, she supposed, but had never shown the least bit of interest in her as a woman. She'd been sixteen when last they met -- fully grown and quite pretty in her preferred form, judging by the admiring looks she'd always received from other young men in the village or on her father's lands. But Charles had hardly given her a second glance then. Well, he was looking for her now, for all the wrong reasons, and she'd be damned if she'd ever give him the satisfaction of finding her!

He now sat beside another guest of the abbey, an attractive woman of about his own age. They both attended to the service most piously, but Raven couldn't help but notice the sidelong glances the woman was giving Charles. He must have been aware, given his Gift. Perhaps he had found a substitute bride-to-be after all? She also noticed that Remy LeBeau, the sheriff to replace Lord Marko, was seated at the woman's other side, and sending Charles a few assessing looks of his own. Romantic rivals vying for her attentions? Good. Perhaps that would be distraction enough to keep Charles busy while Raven plotted out her escape from Shrewsbury. 

When the service ended, she filed out with the other boys, innocent as the new day, and Charles never looked her way once.

* * *

Erik didn't intend to waste the daylight while the monks attended to their offices. A word to Henry before they all parted, and he was off into the town himself, to seek out Christopher and Katherine Summers.

It would appear an innocent enough errand to any who might be watching. Erik and Christopher were of similar trades, and had done business together often enough in the past. Nothing to wonder at one smith seeking out another.

But this was the obvious and necessary next step if they were to bring John Allerdyce's murderer to justice. By Raven's account, the Summers family would have been the last to see Allerdyce alive, apart from whoever killed him; and better yet, they might know what intelligence or goods Allerdyce possessed to be worth murder.

Business in the town had resumed, albeit fitfully, in the wake of the battle. Though there were a few of the king's men yet patrolling the streets, they seemed to have little interest in interfering with ordinary townsfolk, who in turn ignored the soldiers. Everyone seemed eager to return to business as usual, with a sigh of relief that they'd been spared any worse. And that afternoon, the rest of the unclaimed dead from the battle would be laid to rest in a mass grave dug by the Benedictine brothers on abbey grounds.

Erik knocked on the door of the Summers household and was surprised at how rapidly it was answered, by an anxious Katherine. Her face fell a little at the sight of him, but she rallied and fetched up a smile. "Master Lehnsherr! I didn't know to expect you. Christopher is just out in his workshop, it won't be but a moment to fetch him. I presume you have business to discuss?"

"Of a sort. It involves you as well."

She frowned at that, but simply shut the door behind him and urged him to have a seat while she called for her husband. It was a matter of minutes before all three were sitting awkwardly together in their main room, Katherine and Christopher exchanging wary glances as they joined him.

"You'll have heard about the unknown man who was murdered and hidden among those who died of the garrison," Erik said bluntly. "I've been helping Brother Henry seek information on his identity, and we have a name for him now, one I believe you both knew. John Allerdyce."

Katherine went pale, and blindly reached out a hand to Christopher, who clasped it. It was Christopher who spoke. "Sorry I am to hear it! Yes, we knew John. I had no idea he was the poor fellow who was murdered! Neither of us had any kin to claim, so we never thought to go and have a look."

"There are few here who might have known him who weren't killed in the fighting," Katherine said. Her hand shook a little in her husband's grasp, but her voice was steady. "But my husband used to be man-at-arms for Dirk Holme, before he changed trades and moved us here to Shrewsbury, and we knew John in passing there. I haven't thought of him in years, truth be told, but it's still a shock to hear of this."

She was a good liar, though no doubt the shock was genuine enough. Erik did believe that neither of them had expected this news. But half-truths weren't enough, not if they wanted to see the man avenged. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of ill news. You should know that this death was brought to King Anthony's notice, and he has given Brother Henry permission to seek out the murderer and have them brought to justice. Henry and I both intend to see this unlawful death avenged. I promise you that. But in order to do that, I need to uncover more details on this John Allerdyce, and why he might have been killed."

"To be sure," Christopher said. "But why should you imagine that we know aught of use?"

"Because Raven Holme is the person who identified the body," Erik said, quiet but firm. "And she trusts me enough to reveal both his name and her own to me, when she could easily have gone on safely hidden as just another boy amongst the abbey novices. I will keep her secret as long as need be, as you both are doing. But she says that you set John Allerdyce up with a horse and gear, and a place to hide before setting out by night. You may well have been the last to see him alive."

Katherine had given a sharp intake of breath at Raven's name, and Christopher's hand had moved instinctively to where he no longer carried a weapon. But something in Erik's speech seemed to have appeased them. Perhaps it was simply knowing him to be a man of his word, and avowedly nonpartisan in the current civil unrest.

"Raven sent you to us?" Katherine asked, pressing her hand to her throat. "Is she well? She's not been discovered?"

"Only by Henry and me, and of her own free will," Erik assured them. No need to add that he'd worked it out on his own and confronted her with it first. "We'll do all we can to ensure she remains safe and well until she can return to her family."

They exchanged a quick look, and then Christopher asked, "And you're certain that no one else suspects her? None at the abbey, or…?"

"Or Charles Xavier?" Erik gave them a wry smile. "Yes, she warned me of his Gift. Which does make me wonder why you sent him on to my workshop yourself, Christopher."

Christopher blinked. "Did I? I'd half forgotten. That's right, he did ask if I knew any other talented metalworkers in the area, and I mentioned your name. I didn't know he intended to bring you a commission."

"No commission, just a quick repair." Erik still had the mended bridle in his pack, and indicated it. "It struck me as odd, at the time, that you hadn't taken the job yourself. But now I suppose you didn't want him lingering any longer than necessary, lest your thoughts stray in an inconvenient direction."

"We knew it was trouble, him turning up here like that right after the smoke cleared from the battle," Katherine said ruefully. "He used to seem a good enough man, but now -- who knows! Any man who could turn his coat like that, against all the family friends he'd known from childhood…"

"We don't know his reasons," Christopher reminded her. "He's hardly the first to do so in this wretched conflict, nor the last, I'd imagine. But still, it hardly bodes well. I don't like him staying so close to where Raven is hid, not given the price King Anthony would place on her capture."

Erik leaned forward in his chair. "Not only Raven. John Allerdyce. I have to ask what you knew of him, and what Charles Xavier might have overheard despite all your best intentions."

Christopher sighed, regarding him wearily. "Well, I suppose you must. Although I don't know that I'll be able to illuminate much. It began about a week or so before the castle fell, when it became clear a final assault was imminent. Lord Holme took thought for the end, for what might follow. He had a small treasury with him here, that he determined should reach the Empress if he were slain. And more than that, some particular tool -- a weapon, I thought at first -- that he and Marko had developed for the Empress's express use. He called it 'her crown.' I wasn't close in his counsel, but then, few were. Holme is a private sort of man. But he knew he could rely upon me in need, and Katherine as well, and few would suspect us. He brought me a laden saddlebag with the 'crown' and the rest of the treasury sealed within. Raven brought it, actually, when she came to us to devise her plan. I doubt the girl knew what she carried. When she went off to the abbey, I took the baggage over the bridge to my barn in Frankwell and concealed it there, so that it would be out of the town and accessible if we had to convey it away at short notice. And we set a signal, that if any man of Holme's party should come to me, I should show him where it was hidden and provide him with horse and anything else he might need, in order to make good his escape.

"It was left nearly too late. The morning of the battle, before first light even, John Allerdyce came to me and showed me the sign. He said he had vital intelligence for the Empress as well. I knew him, had known him as just a lad when he'd first entered Holme's service. So I had Alex sneak him out to Frankwell to wait out the daylight, and he would leave once darkness fell. And as far as any of us knew, he did!"

"And so he did," Erik said. "But he was waylaid."

Christopher nodded grimly. "Footpads after the saddlebag, I wager. It was no great fortune, but it wouldn't need to be, in such desperate times as these."

"Possible." And it was, Erik had to admit. But why go through the trouble of carrying the corpse back to the castle walls, if that was the case? A convenient way to cover up a crime, to be sure, but risky in its own right. "What message did John carry for the Empress, did you know?"

"No. He wouldn't speak of it. For my own safety, he said, as Holme wished."

Erik drummed his fingers along the arm of the chair. "And who else would have known of his mission?"

"Hard to say for certain," Christopher said. "But Holme preferred to keep his own counsel, as I've said. Only a few men closest to him at the garrison, likely, and no use asking after them. They would have all died in the fighting or been executed afterward."

"Marko was his liege lord, and got away clean with him," Erik pointed out, but Christopher was shaking his head firmly.

"Not Marko. This was Holme's business alone. Holme...did not entirely trust Cain Marko, liege lord or no."

Food for thought. But Marko had made the same desperate escape from Shrewsbury as Holme that day, and would not likely have lingered at great personal risk to prevent a mere courier's errand, no matter what the message. Would he? But again, why go through the toil and danger of hiding the body outside the castle, if so? Marko was already being pursued by the king's justice on the count of treason, a simple murder would hardly make a difference in his case at this point. He would have simply slain the man and left the corpse lie.

Who else could have known of John Allerdyce's errand?

Erik looked about the room, frowning. There was one other whose piece in this tale he had not yet heard. "You said your son Alex helped hide John. Where is he, might I ask? He was with Raven that night in the woods, he might well be able to fill in the missing piece of this puzzle."

"What?" Katherine demanded, aghast. "My Raven was out there, the night John was killed?"

"Of course, that's how I knew to come to you." Erik's frown deepened. "She said Alex came to warn her after Charles Xavier's visit to you. I thought you must have sent him…?"

Christopher's face had gone white as a sheet. "No, of course not! That would only have put her at more risk! We knew Alex was concerned, of course -- he's hardly one to keep his opinions to himself -- but you're telling me he went directly to the abbey afterward?"

"I assumed you knew! He went to meet Raven, and they decided to try to intercept John Allerdyce on his route, so that Raven could accompany him to Normandy. But they ran afoul of...well, quite possibly John's killer, and Alex told her to run, so she did. All the way back to the abbey. Your son would have been out of this house for hours that evening -- where did he tell you he'd gone?"

"He didn't," Katherine whispered. Her hands twisted in her lap wretchedly. "When he went out that evening -- he said he was meeting a friend, and it had been a difficult day for all of us, I thought nothing of it. And he didn't come home that night."

Erik glanced between the two of them, beginning to comprehend. "You mean…?"

"Alex hasn't come home at all," Christopher said heavily.

"It's hardly the first time he's gone off with friends for a few days," Katherine put in, her voice wavering, "especially when he's in a sulk with us. He's eighteen, it's difficult enough keeping him in check even without a Gift like his! I did worry he'd run afoul of the king's soldiers somehow, especially since he makes no secret of his partisanship, but I was sure we'd have heard if there'd been any real trouble…"

Christopher shook his head. "I've been asking around quietly. No need to borrow trouble, or bring the soldiers' attention down on us, but I know Alex, and I know where he generally goes off to when he's in a mood. But no one's seen hide nor hair of him since that night. And now you're telling me my son was there in the forest when John was killed?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the crime scene is investigated, there are too many potential suspects, and the plot thickens (as it is wont to do).

Erik returned from his visit with the Summers household with few answers, and several more questions than he'd started out with. He'd hoped that learning more about John Allerdyce's mission would reveal who might have motivation to murder the man. So much for that! A saddlebag with some small treasury, and a mysterious crown; yes, enough to tempt any cutpurse, but no common thief would plot so intricate a cover-up.

And then there was the secret message for the Empress. What message? Who else living would have known it? Any of the king's men might have thought that worth killing to prevent, but how would they have known any such courier existed, or what route he would follow?

Erik would have to pay a visit to the place where it happened and have a closer look. Best take Henry with him for that -- the monk had a sharp mind, and a different intimate knowledge of death than Erik's experience on various battlefields. He might catch a clue that Erik would miss.

Still ruminating over possibilities, Erik made his way distractedly through the Foregate to his own home and workshop, only to be brought up short by the sight of Charles Xavier there waiting for him.

The damned bridle! He'd nearly forgotten about it. And now he'd have to face Charles, carry on a conversation, all while keeping Raven's secrets locked inside his own mind.

Fortunately, Erik had had several hours to mull over _that_ particular complication already.

Years ago in Jerusalem, Erik had become acquainted with another of the _mevurachim_, a striking woman named Elisheva. She, too, could read thoughts, and even control the minds of others to a certain degree. She had been a cunning warrior in her own right, though her battlefield was quite different from Erik's, and they had been allies for a time. He'd asked her, once, how one might protect their own thoughts from such Gifts as hers.

(He'd known by then that Sebastian Shaw's patroness was a telepath, that he might encounter the Empress Emma one day in pursuit of Shaw. He'd thought it a useful skill to acquire.)

"There's no true wall you could build in your mind that would keep me out," Elisheva had told him. "Not unless your powers run along similar lines, although I have encountered one or two whose abilities confound mine in unexpected ways, despite not being telepathic themselves. But no, the best defense you have is to make your thoughts insignificant."

What she meant by that, she'd gone on to explain, was that unless she had a particular _desire_ to invade a person's thoughts, she would generally leave them be. "Most of us, in our everyday lives, we think about such dull, ordinary things," she'd said with a shrug. "How hot the weather is today, what we ate for breakfast, our impressions of that handsome young man who's smiling at us. Important to us, perhaps, but to a stranger? It's simply noise. Do you listen to every single conversation you might overhear at a market? Of course not, because why would you? And what I hear first are only those ordinary, superficial thoughts. I have to concentrate much harder to unearth your secrets. I would need a _reason_ for that. So to protect yourself? Just don't give me a reason."

He never had met Emma Frost in the end. But now it seemed the knowledge would come in handy after all. 

So as he walked up to greet Charles, he thought of nothing but the weight of the pack over his shoulder, the heat of the sun overhead, and the gentle, constant awareness of the various metals scattered throughout the space around him.

"Master Xavier," he said coolly. "I hope you have not been waiting long."

Charles sighed, though he was smiling. "And here I thought I'd broken you of such formality! But no, not at all, and I do realize you weren't expecting me so early. It's just that I have some business to attend to that may run well into the evening, and I didn't want you to think I had forgotten you. If the bridle isn't ready yet, I'm happy to return tomorrow."

"It's no trouble, I've finished it." Erik unbolted the large double doors with a wave of his hand -- they were barred from the inside, of his own design, to ensure that no one else could open them from without. "Just give me a moment. So the king has found some work for you after all?"

He had intended to give the bridle one last examination before turning it back over. He did so now, quick and perfunctory though it was. No matter; Erik's work was always excellent.

"Not yet," Charles said in response to his idle question. "But such a man as King Anthony cannot resist taking advantage of any talents he may find, however unfashionably late they may arrive. He'll come up with a use for me soon enough."

Perhaps it was unwise, but Erik couldn't help tweaking the tiger's tail. He kept his tone mild and focus entirely upon the bridle. "Rumor has it there's at least one task he's already set you. Something about a missing girl?"

Charles shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "And missing she remains! Ah, well, I never could claim to be a great hunter. My father tried to interest me in hawking, but while I enjoyed watching the falcons in flight, I suppose I always felt too much compassion for their prey." 

"Men create sport of many things that should only be done out of true necessity," Erik said quietly. "And cloak all manner of barbarism in the guise of chivalry."

He could not help but think of John Allerdyce, lying cold and nameless on a slab of stone, the cruelly thin line of the cord that killed him encircling his pale neck.

After a long moment, Charles said, "I heard a name was found for that poor stranger in the castle keep. I suppose anything sought may eventually be found, if one does not tire of the searching."

"And all questions have answers, if one waits long enough."

"Assuming one keeps an open mind to whatever the true answer might be!" Charles gave him a shrewd look. "It seems to me that you would prove a most tireless hunter, indeed."

Erik allowed himself a faint smile. "So I've been told, although in less polite language."

Charles laughed at that, eyes sparkling with approval. "I can only imagine! Whatever brought an untamed falcon like you to nest in such a place as Shrewsbury, my friend?" He shook his head before Erik could come up with a response. "Sometime when I'm free to take my leisure, I should like to hear that story. But I'm afraid I really do have business to attend to. The repair on the bridle looks excellent, and I thank you for attending to it so promptly."

He passed over the agreed-upon payment, and tucked the bridle away into his own pack. Erik had a strong impression that it would lie there, unused and entirely unneeded, for the remainder of Charles's sojourn in Shrewsbury.

At the doorway, Charles turned back a moment, his face unreadable. "Oh, Erik, one last question. You're a practical man, and you seem to have a great deal of useful knowledge of this area. Supposing I should have need of your help one day, you would not refuse me without due thought, would you?"

That brought Erik up short. He frowned, doing his best not to speculate upon what might have inspired such a request. "I can't say that I'm often the first person a neighbor comes to for help, but I would never turn anyone away without good reason."

"That's all I ask," Charles said, and with an oblique smile, he went on his way.

* * *

It was a slow afternoon at the abbey gatehouse. After all the stress of a month of siege and the unwanted excitement of the battle and its aftermath, Armando supposed he ought to be grateful for a bit of peace, but instead it made him twitchy. It didn't help that he knew _something_ was afoot, but not quite what that was. Brother Henry had set off in mid-afternoon on some errand with Erik, which must have been related to the murdered man; Henry had mentioned that they now at least had a name for him. There was also something to do with Bobby Drake, who was currently in lessons with the rest of the schoolboys.

All in all, Armando felt quite left out of the action. But he could not neglect his role as porter to go haring off across the shire in pursuit of a murderer, as Henry could. Henry's particular duties afforded him a certain freedom of movement that few of their fellow brothers enjoyed; and of course Erik was his own man, and could use his time as he wished. So Armando would just have to practice the heavenly virtue of patience.

He never once regretted his chosen vocation, but he had to admit that it did chafe from time to time.

"Brother Armando?"

He looked up to find Moira standing before him, a bundle of cloth in her arms. "Mistress MacTaggert! How can I be of service to you? All is well with your lodgings, I hope?"

"Yes, perfectly well." She offered him a pale smile. "But now that my brother has been laid to rest, I was going through what few of his things I had, and thought perhaps...the abbey takes collections for the poor, and I have no need of Kevin's clothing. I've cleaned all -- cloak, cotte, hose, and boots. So I thought perhaps you might find someone who could use such. Especially with this civil war uprooting so many lives…"

"It's a kind thought, and a charitable one," Armando assured her gently, accepting the bundle. "I'll make sure it all goes to those who need them. Thank you, my lady."

"Just Moira. And no thanks are necessary. Why should I throw out good cloth?"

Armando set it aside, rubbing the thick wool of the cloak between his fingers. "Good cloth, indeed. I don't recall seeing this on your brother when you found him."

"No," Moira said, stepping hesitantly within the gatehouse. Armando smiled and patted the bench beside him, and she took the seat he offered. "Remy remembered that this was among the gear left behind in the guardroom, and thought it must be his. The brooch on it matched his belt buckle. The brooch I did keep for myself," she added. "It's our family's sigil -- a boar's head."

She did indeed wear a large, masculine-looking ornament pinned to her own light cloak, and she brushed it with her fingertips, her gaze turning inward.

"That was good of him," Armando said. He gave her a sly smile, hoping to gently tease her out of her sadness. "_Remy_, is it?"

Moira colored slightly, but returned the smile. "Captain LeBeau has been very kind to me."

"I'm sure he has, and with good reason, too! I did notice that you had a gentleman on each arm that day at the castle, and at Mass today, too."

"Yes, _Charles_ has been most solicitous, as well," Moira said, laughing a little at it. "I must admit, I'm not sure what to make of it. At my age, I am quite the determined spinster." Her smile fell a bit. "With my father's illness, and Kevin's absence, I became used to running my own household. I suppose I'm not quite ready to give up that independence yet, even if I am suddenly a prize to be won."

Armando shook his head. "I've known a number of powerful matriarchs in my time, who definitely ruled their own roosts. I don't think you need to sacrifice all freedom if you do choose to marry. Though I certainly can't speak for a woman's experience!"

"No, I rather think you forfeited that when you took your own vows," Moira agreed. She studied him with open curiosity. "What _did_ bring you to settle in Shrewsbury, of all places? You told me that it had been a long and unexpected road. I've seen so little outside my own lands and this shire -- it would be wonderful to hear a tale like yours must be."

"It's not entirely mine to tell," Armando said, thinking ruefully of the crusader Sebastian Shaw, and Erik's single-minded quest for vengeance. "But I'd be happy to spin you a yarn or two, if your suitors can spare you for an afternoon."

"Well, Remy dances attendance on the king, and Charles is off on personal business," Moira told him, rolling her eyes. "I'm no blushing maiden, to sigh after any man, and my time is yet my own to spend as I will. And frankly, with all that's happened these past few days, I would be most grateful for the distraction. Assuming it's not improper for you to be seen speaking with me?"

"Well, the Prior might frown at it, but that's just the shape his face always takes," Armando said cheerfully. "And I'd be glad of the company."

And certainly it would be better than moping about what Henry and Erik were getting up to without him!

* * *

By that time, Henry and Erik had made their way down the forest trail from Frankwell and found what must be the place Raven had mentioned. There was indeed an empty hut beside a tree where a horse had clearly been recently tethered.

"Closer to Frankwell than I'd thought," Henry remarked, gauging the distance they'd traveled. "Of course, Raven approached it roundabout, and wouldn't have realized. But from here it would not be difficult to carry a dead body to the castle ditch, where the executed men were thrown. It's not so great a distance on horseback. There's even an easy place opposite the castle to ford the river from this side."

"A pity Raven couldn't have run the quickest route home! But she was certainly right about the caltrops." Erik levitated one in the air between them. An ugly spiked thing, crudely made from iron. "Whoever laid the trap did his best to clean up after himself, but he missed this one."

Henry looked about them consideringly. "I wonder where he kept his own horse, if it was Allerdyce's tied here. Well, the trees are thick enough, I suppose he wouldn't have had to go too far to conceal it. We can have a look when we're done with the hut and see if there are any traces to be found. Shall we?"

Erik nodded and pocketed the caltrop. Henry hoped he'd blunted its spikes first, or it would likely rip a hole in the fabric.

The hut consisted of a single room, likely once used to store up fodder for the winter. With the door and shutters open, the late afternoon sunlight streamed in and tinged all with a honey-gold hue. It was easy to see the mess of grass and dirt churned up in the earthen floor, where clearly a struggle had taken place; there were also scorch marks seared into walls by the entry, and even the door itself.

"Alex Summers," Erik said grimly. "Raven did say he let loose a blast. You've seen his Gift in action before?"

"No, but he accidentally burned his brother once, and I tended him. Alex seemed more shaken than young Scott by it." Henry ran a finger along the seared wood. "I hope we don't find his body to match Allerdyce's."

"If so, shouldn't Alex have been hidden amongst the rest of the corpses, like Allerdyce?"

Henry pondered it. "Not if the murderer recognized him. Anyone in the town would have known Alex Summers manifestly had _not_ been executed with the garrison. He wasn't in the fight. So if he _was_ also killed that night, his body must be hidden elsewhere."

"That assumes the killer was a local man, though. Or at least one who knew Alex." Erik gave Henry a meaningful look. "Charles Xavier has long acquaintance with the Summers family."

"So does half the town," Henry pointed out. "It's far too early to leap to any conclusions. Alex might have taken off running at the same time as Raven did, and still be in hiding somewhere, afraid for his life. He might even be able to identify our murderer."

Erik frowned at the scorch marks while Henry explored the rest of the small enclosure. He found melted wax on the sill, indicating that there had indeed been a candle lit at some point, which matched Raven's story.

"There's another possibility," Erik said abruptly. "Alex himself could be the murderer."

Henry blinked at him. "What?"

"By Raven's own account, she never set foot in here herself, nor saw the person within. Alex told her to run, so she did. What if it was John Allerdyce that Alex attacked here?"

"For what purpose?" Henry demanded.

Erik shrugged. "Dreams of glory, perhaps? Of being able to play the hero for the Empress himself? We all know he chafed at being left out of the fighting, and he's always been volatile and reckless. Even his own parents admitted he might well have been off causing trouble somewhere." At Henry's troubled look, he added, "I admit it's not the most likely scenario. But Alex has gone missing, and so have that lame horse and its precious saddlebag. It's a possibility."

Henry hadn't known Alex well, but hated to think so ill of someone who'd never seemed any worse than the average moody teenager. "Or Allerdyce might have turned traitor himself, for the sake of that treasury and the so-called crown, and attacked Alex first," he pointed out, mostly for the sake of argument. "God knows men have done far worse for less."

"Also possible. Until we find Alex, for better or ill, we won't know his side to the story." Erik looked about the musty hut with a sigh. "And I don't know that anything here will point us in the right direction."

"Well, let's have a closer look, then."

Apart from the scorched wood, which was almost certainly Alex's doing one way or the other, Henry couldn't find any particular indicators of the manner of the attacks. Certainly there was manifold evidence of a struggle, but no sign of the strangler's cord that had eventually ended Allerdyce's life. Whoever had killed him must have taken it away with them.

There were a few traces of blood scattered across the muddled grasses. A few dark threads of cloth were caught in the rough timbers behind the door, so someone had likely lain in wait there. The color was too common to be of much help, though; it could easily have come from Allerdyce's own cloak. And that was all Henry could see.

"Between's Alex's Gift and Allerdyce's supposed command of fire, honestly, I would expect to see a great deal more burns here," he commented. "Especially if they did fight one another. This struggle appears to have been hand-to-hand, and limited at that. No blades, either, or there would be far more blood."

Erik nodded, leaning back on his haunches in the dirt. "I agree. And there were no other marks on Allerdyce, apart from the cut around his neck and the lump on his skull. He must have been overpowered before he could fight back much, probably stunned by the blow to his head."

"His hair was singed at the neck, too," Henry said, remembering. "And his shirt cuffs -- I'd nearly forgotten! That could be the result of Alex's blast, or...might even be explained by his own Gift. If he fought back with flame, and scorched himself in the process."

"It might have marked his killer, as well," Erik mused. "It's worth keeping an eye out for any with fresh burns on their hands or face. And have a look at this -- here, down low by the wall. A sort of crack in the foundation. I thought at first it was related to Alex's blasts, but those are a searing heat, not concussive." He ran a finger along the crack in the packed earth. "This looks more like...do you ever get earthquakes here in England? I've seen damage like this in Syria after a mild tremor. But I'd imagine this has a different cause."

"It might be unrelated," Henry said uncertainly. "But it's worth a thought."

They remained a few minutes more, searching through the scattered grasses in case there was anything else they'd missed. Just as Henry was about to give up, Erik hummed and reached out a hand. There was a glint of light, which he caught out of midair.

"What's that?" Henry asked.

Erik studied it curiously. "A coin, I think, but it's -- melted? Not quite. But something like." He closed his eyes, likely focusing on it with his Gift. "It has the feel of a silver penny."

"May I?" Henry took the little scrap of metal when Erik proferred it. It did look rather like it ought to be a coin, though the face had worn away -- or melted, like wax. "Perhaps it was one of the coins in the saddlebag? You did say there was a small treasury in there. Or in one of their purses. If it came into contact with either Alex or Allerdyce's Gifts, that might have melted the metal for an instant."

Henry opened his hand, and let Erik float the coin back into his own. He pocketed it alongside the caltrop. "Likely. All right, let's have another look outside."

They did eventually find the spot where the other horse must have been tethered, behind another copse of trees. But no further traces of Allerdyce's mount, or the goods it had been carrying. And no sign of where Alex might have run off to -- assuming he'd still been alive to run off at all.

* * *

The pretty lady who'd been caught between Charles and Remy LeBeau was back at the Vespers service, Raven noted, this time without either of her suitors. She didn't seem to mind the solitude, though, her attention serenely fixed on the office. Rather more devout than most of the laity -- Raven certainly wouldn't be here herself if she had her druthers. There were just so _many_ prayers to be said, all day long, and even the Matins at midnight! If Raven had ever considered entering a religious order herself, this sojourn amongst the Benedictines had cured her of that. She liked the monks well enough -- well, some of them, anyway -- but she was definitely not cut out to be a nun.

Whatever Charles was up to, he wasn't _here_, so Raven could relax a little. After the service ended, she dutifully followed the other boys to the refectory for supper, after which they were all permitted to use their time as they would until Compline, the final office of the evening.

Brother Henry gave her a nod as they finished with supper, so she headed cheerfully out to the herbarium, like a proper herbalist's assistant.

"Well?" she demanded eagerly, once the door to the workshop was firmly shut behind them. "What have you found so far?"

Henry hovered awkwardly around the fringes of his workshop, fumbling with tapers to get the lamp lit. "Um, hadn't you better…? I mean, anyone might stop by and see you!"

Raven blinked at him, and then realized she'd instinctively shifted back into her preferred female form as soon as they were alone. Oh. She hadn't known she trusted Henry so thoroughly as to let her guard down like that. _Well,_ she reflected, a little moodily, _not quite so far as all that._

After all, she still wasn't blue.

Even so, she shifted back into Bobby's now-familiar shape. "I'm still female, you know, no matter what I look like," she remarked, maybe a little petulantly. "Have you ever _been_ alone with a woman before?"

"Of course, although not often." Brother Henry had successfully lit the lamp by then, but continued fussing unnecessarily with the flint. "It's not exactly something the Order approves of."

"Yet we do make up a full half of humanity," Raven pointed out. "Even you must have had a mother, once!"

Henry stilled at last. He took a seat on the bench beneath his drying herbs. "Yes, though I don't remember her."

"Oh, I'd forgotten." She had the grace to feel a little abashed by it. "Erik told me that you were given to the abbey very young. I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"It's all right." Henry shrugged. "I used to wonder about my parents. Who they were, why they were so eager to give me to the Church. It might have simply been that they thought the Benedictines could give me a better life. I was hardly the first child oblate, and not the last, either. It might have had nothing to do with my Gift. But…"

Raven gave him a wry smile. "But you can't help but wonder what your life would have been if you'd been born...normal."

"Normal," Henry echoed. "Yes. I admit some of my earliest interest in plants and medicines stemmed from wondering if I might _cure_ myself, somehow. As though having ordinary feet would make any real difference in who I am." He studied Raven's face -- _Bobby's_ face -- curiously in the warm lamplight. "Were you born with your Gift, or did it develop at puberty, as most do?"

"No, it was clear from birth that I was Gifted," Raven said quietly. "I looked...monstrous, until I learned to control it. I've been told I was lucky my father didn't drown me as a babe."

"That's horrible," Henry said, with feeling. "That anyone should say such a thing to a child, no matter how you looked."

_You might think differently if you saw my true form,_ Raven didn't say aloud. Instead she laughed it off. "Let's just say I have plenty of practice hiding. Do you still search for a cure, with your medicines?"

He shook his head. "I gave that up long ago. We're said to be God's Gifted, are we not? If this is how He made us, it would be wrong to try to change that. And no matter what their reasons were, my parents brought me to where I was meant to be. I do truly believe that now."

"Must be nice," Raven sighed. "To have that...certainty. There's so little in my life right now that I have any confidence in at all."

They sat together quietly a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Henry shook his head as though to clear it. "Well, you're hardly the only one cast adrift in this miserable civil war. I promise I'll do whatever I can to help you out of this mess, and see you safely returned to your father."

Raven laughed a little at that. "As though he could do anything to guarantee my safety! He's a hunted fugitive himself now. God only knows where he and Marko have run to ground, for I do not."

"Where would _you_ go, then? Where were you hoping Allerdyce would take you?"

"As far from King Anthony as possible, I suppose. To the Empress's court in Normandy. Somewhere I can be of some use, instead of hiding in this boy's body like a coward." She stared down at her hands -- the rough, tanned hands of a teenaged boy who'd been working out of doors, nothing like Raven's own. But strong and sturdy. In the past week, Bobby had probably been a more useful person than Raven Holme had in all her life. It was a sobering realization. "Surely the Empress Emma could come up with a better use for my Gifts than just to be pretty and keep my head down. _She_ is certainly no ornamental bauble of a female!"

Henry had a curious expression in his eyes as he looked at her. "It's true that I've spent my life mostly surrounded by other men, but I have met a number of women of this town, at least. And I can't think of a single one who would abide being reduced to merely _ornamental_. There are as many ways of being a woman in this world as a man, I should think, and I do believe you'll find your place in it, or carve one out for yourself out of sheer stubbornness. You're too clever not to."

"I...um, thank you, I suppose." Her face felt very warm. "That's kind of you to say."

He gave her a shy smile. "I didn't say it to be kind. It's just the truth, that's all." The moment stretched between them a little too long. He coughed and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Anyway. I meant to tell you what Erik and I found out today. He talked to your old nurse and her husband, they said that Allerdyce was carrying an urgent message for the Empress. And also a saddlebag containing a small treasury of your father's, including some kind of crown intended for the Empress. You were right about the caltrops -- Erik found one in the road, and we had a look about the hut you mentioned. There was definitely a fight there. But few enough clues as to the culprit."

Raven accepted the change of subject with relief. "So you do think John was killed there? And did you find out what happened to Alex?"

"Yes, it's likely that was the spot where Allerdyce died. It was close enough to the castle walls, on horseback at least, that the killer could easily have disposed of him there afterward. And we saw signs of Alex's Gift in the hut -- he clearly fought there. But no sign of what became of him afterward. In truth, I'm concerned we might be looking for a second body," Henry admitted with a sigh. "And the killer seems to have gotten what he came for -- no trace of the lame horse or the treasure it carried. It could well have been a common thief after all, and like as not well away from here by now with his loot. We may be hunting for this murderer in vain."

"Ah." Raven cleared her throat. "That is -- I don't know any better than you who the killer might have been. But if they were after my father's treasury, at least they failed in that."

Henry looked up at her sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I never lied to you," she said quickly. "Everything I told you and Erik was absolutely true. But I may have...omitted somewhat." She sighed, internally wrestling with how far she could trust these men into whose company she'd fallen by sheer chance. But in for a penny, in for a pound. "I took the saddlebag myself when I ran. It's safely hidden -- for now, at least. No, don't ask me where; the less you know, the less you might accidentally reveal. But I knew it was important -- I brought it to the Summerses myself, my father had entrusted it to my safety and I could not fail him. And I didn't. It's here, on abbey property, and I intend to deliver it into the Empress's hands myself." She laughed, perhaps a little wildly. "So now how best should we proceed in getting me to Normandy?"

* * *

At the same time, Erik was of course visiting with Brother Armando in the gatehouse, filling him in on the events of the day. And an eventful day it had certainly been.

After he finished his summary, he sat brooding over it, idly flipping the melted coin from the hut between his long fingers. Armando watched him in silence for a time, then cleared his throat.

"You know, that takes me back," he said, nodding at the coin. "Feels like we're hunting Shaw all over again."

"Different coin," Erik grunted. He'd left _that_ one buried deep inside Shaw's skull.

Armando rolled his eyes. "I should hope so! But not just that. The look in your eyes when you talk about this business. You're becoming obsessed, Erik."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's not even remotely comparable to Shaw."

"The crime itself? No, of course not. But your thirst for vengeance? You have to admit it's rather familiar. John Allerdyce was a complete stranger to you, and in service to the woman who sponsored Shaw, no less. Why should this matter so much to you?"

"It's not vengeance, it's justice," Erik retorted. "Everyone in this world deserves that much. It's not as though I intend to kill the murderer myself if we find him."

"_When_ we find him." Armando grinned. "I know you, man. You're like a hawk. You catch sight of a rabbit, you're damn sure going to get it."

"Such language from a man of God!" But Erik's thoughts were elsewhere. Armando's words reminded him of Charles's, earlier that day -- _Whatever brought an untamed falcon like you to nest in such a place as Shrewsbury?_

It was unnerving, that a near stranger should describe Erik in the same manner as a friend who'd known him well for years. Sebastian Shaw had once been quick to see the hawk in Erik's nature as well, with an eagerness to exploit it for his own nefarious purposes. And then there was the oblique favor Charles had asked of him -- or, well, the implications of needing such a favor in the future. What game was Charles Xavier playing here? And how did it relate to the murder of John Allerdyce? Both newcomers to Shrewsbury, arriving on the eve of battle, on opposing sides -- surely that was more than coincidence.

Or was he overthinking it? Newcomers would be drawn toward the king's camp nearly every day, after all. Was he overly suspicious simply due to the nature of Charles's Gift? As though Erik himself had never been judged simply for the existence of his powers.

"Erik?" Armando prodded at Erik's shoulder. "You still with me, here? You looked like you were miles away."

Erik shook his head to clear it. "I was just thinking. You know, it's a shame you can't do more to help us with this. You're better with...well, people."

Armando raised an eyebrow. "How do you mean? Granted, you don't like most of them much, so I can see why you'd rather I do the talking."

"It's more than that, though," Erik said. "Henry is clever, of course, but he's too much the innocent when it comes to human nature. He can read volumes in the tiniest scraps of physical evidence, but give him a _live_ human being to study, and they might as well be a blank slate. And as for me -- well, as you said. I don't like most people. It's all too easy for me to ascribe the most villainous motives to any one of them. I can't eliminate a single suspect."

"True enough," Armando laughed. "Well, let's talk it through. Who's at the top of your list for now?"

For some reason, Erik was hesitant to mention Charles Xavier too soon. Neither Armando nor Henry had really even interacted with him. And if it weren't for Raven's warning, would Erik even suspect him? What if it really was all in Erik's head? Instead, he started with: "Alex Summers. He's been missing since that night. But you know him better than I do -- isn't he one of your Gifted pupils, of a sort?"

Armando nodded. "His parents brought him to me, to see if I could help him control his Gift. A lot of them do that these days. Guess word got around that I can survive just about anything." He winked. "He can be a moody kid, but not a mean one, not really. Just easily frustrated. And scared of his own Gift. Small wonder, it's a volatile one. But why would he kill John Allerdyce? They were on the same side."

"Henry asked the same thing, when I mentioned the possibility, and I didn't have a good answer for him, either. But you have to admit the timing is suspicious."

"John was strangled, right? We know that for sure from the body? Believe me, if Alex ever were to kill a man, it would be with his Gift, and as likely by accident as not," Armando said positively. "Not by strangling. And he would never think to conceal the body like that. No, I don't think he's our murderer."

Erik toyed with the coin again, frowning. "Would that eliminate any Gifted attacker? God knows when I've killed, it was always with metal."

"But you were never trying to hide it," Armando pointed out. "Even with Shaw, you were making a statement. If you needed to conceal a murder? You might well use a stealthier method."

"Metal can be stealthy. But I take your point," Erik sighed. "And I do believe you're right about Alex. That boy doesn't have a subtle bone in his body. If he intended to kill, he'd blast the hell out of them and damn the consequences."

"All right. So let's rule out Alex for now. Leaving aside motive for the moment: opportunity. Who else would have known where John would be riding that night?"

"Raven. Christopher and Katherine Summers." Erik drummed his fingers on his knee. "Charles Xavier."

"I think we can eliminate Raven, if only because she would never have identified the body otherwise," Armando said. "Unless you have any doubts beyond your usual misanthropic paranoia?"

Erik shrugged, considering it. "Do I think her capable of murder? Yes, if the need were great enough. There's fire in that one. But I agree that she would have to be stupid to give us John's name if she had killed him. Why point us onto the correct trail? And Raven certainly isn't stupid. Reckless, but not stupid." He frowned. "I do think there are some gaps in her tale, though. The saddlebag, for one -- she brought it to Christopher Summers herself, she knew it was valuable. But no mention of it in her story. And I'm still not sure we've seen her true form."

"Let a lady retain some feminine mystique, Erik," Armando said with a laugh. "It's none of your business what she really looks like! I've only seen her as Bobby, remember, so it's all still theoretical for me. But let's leave Raven aside for now. Alex's parents?" He shook his head. "I really don't think that's likely. They're good, solid people, and they were doing everything they could to help John escape. If either had reason to want to prevent it, there would have been far quicker and easier ways of dispatching him."

"Agreed, but you did ask who else knew to find him on that path. Which leads us to Charles Xavier." Erik let the melted coin twirl gently in the air between them. "He visited the Summerses that day, asking about Raven. He can read minds. He could easily have divined the entire plan out of their thoughts. And telepathy isn't suited for physical murder -- he would have needed a weapon at hand. Like the strangle-cord."

"He could even have read this mysterious message for the Empress out of John's mind, if it came to that." Armando batted the coin out of midair and idly looked it over. "Not to mention the missing treasury in that saddlebag. He doesn't seem a man motivated by greed, though."

"Maybe not, but who can say? It would buy him favor with the king, which could be worth more to him than the value of the coin itself. And Christopher did say the treasury included something they called the Empress's crown." Erik gave him a significant look. "Which he thought might be some sort of weapon."

Armando frowned. "A weapon for a mind-reader, specifically? Yes, I can see why that might interest Charles." He tossed the coin back to Erik, who caught it easily. "Damn it, I like the man. He seems a pleasant fellow. I don't want to imagine him capable of cold-blooded murder."

"Neither do I," Erik said, and was surprised to realize it was true. Since when did he _like_ Charles Xavier? He ruthlessly suppressed the thought. "But Raven did say he might be capable of controlling thoughts, as well as reading them. He may be deliberately warping our own opinions of him."

"Not mine," Armando said at once. "Oh, I don't know what Charles is or isn't capable of, I'm just saying, you forget the nature of _my_ Gift. I've got some natural defenses, you know. Anything my body perceives as an attack, it defends. That includes mental attacks. Just reading thoughts might be passive enough to get around it -- I'm not going to assume he can't listen in -- but trying to control them, that's another story."

That hadn't occurred to Erik, not even when they'd been hunting Shaw. "You've encountered another telepath before?"

"Yes, once, before our paths crossed. Well, not quite like Charles is -- more of an illusionist, you might say. Would make you think you saw things that weren't real, that sort of thing. Ugly things. Nasty fellow. Point is, though, it was all about projecting what was in his head into yours, and it never worked on me. My mind apparently shoved right back. Knocked him for a loop, let me tell you." Armando bared his teeth in something distinctly unlike his usual smile. "Never ran into him again after that. He'd been hassling a caravan route out of Fez for years until I showed up. The traders thought I was some kind of lucky talisman. I made good money that season."

"Fascinating," Erik murmured. "So at the very least, Charles shouldn't be able to influence your thoughts."

"We still don't have any proof that he's involved at all," Armando pointed out. "Opportunity is one thing, motive another. He's not the only man of the king's party who would benefit from preventing John Allerdyce's mission to the Empress, or who might have gotten greedy at the thought of the treasury. And just because we can't think of anyone else who knew John's plans, it doesn't mean no one else _could_ have. Anyone at the castle that night could have either been involved in Dirk Holme's plot or overheard it somehow. And even if they died in the battle that morning, who knows who they might have told beforehand?"

It was a fair point. And Erik remembered, all at once, that shadowy figure he'd glimpsed emerging from the old river-port in the town walls, on the very eve of battle, slipping secretly away toward the king's camp.

* * *

It was quite late in the evening when King Anthony heard a rap on the door of his chambers. This still being a military campaign, and having only held Shrewsbury castle a matter of days, the accommodations were Spartan and his schedule yet irregular; it was no great surprise to be called upon even at this hour.

A manservant opened the door to reveal Remy LeBeau, still settling into his new position as sheriff and perhaps overly scrupulous in his duties.

"I am sorry to disturb Your Grace so late," Remy said smoothly, "but I have just received news that I did not think should wait until morning."

"And what were _you_ doing up so late, hmmm? Dicing with the guards again?" Remy shrugged, his eyes glittering, and Anthony laughed and poured himself a fresh flagon of wine. "Oh, don't worry, I'd never begrudge a man his amusements. So what news was worth interrupting the game?"

Remy smiled, a flash of white teeth in his saturnine visage. "Perhaps you might wait a moment to drink; a toast may well be in order. Dirk Holme is dead."

Anthony blinked at that. "Your men caught up to him?"

"In a manner of speaking. Our best guess was that Holme and Marko, having escaped the castle at the last possible minute, would have made directly for Wales. Your relations with the Welsh princes are not so strong as to permit our soldiers free passage into Welsh soil, so I directed my search party to split up at the border, and follow it both north and south in case your enemies crossed at a different point. They also would follow any rumors they might hear, of any fugitives matching Marko or Holme's descriptions. Well, so it was: my man who went north toward Oswestry heard about a body found in the marshes near Maesbury. He made further enquiries, and was brought to the chapel where the dead man lay. There is no doubt; by his coloring and the signet ring the man wore, it is Dirk Holme. He took a knife to the back and died."

"Huh." Anthony swirled his wine, pondering it. He had loudly expressed a desire to see Marko and Holme punished for their treason, and now half of the pair, at least, had suffered exactly that. And hadn't Holme been the one with the daughter he was searching for? A girl hardly eighteen years old, now orphaned. Something vaguely akin to guilt tugged at his chest. Well, wine was good at silencing such nagging doubts.

In the heat of his anger, he'd set Charles Xavier on the girl's trail, dangling the promise of royal favor in exchange for her capture. With her father dead, she was less valuable to him, and if Anthony were honest with himself -- an experience he frequently avoided -- the idea of using her under the current circumstances turned his stomach somewhat. Well, while Xavier had been respectful in his attendance ever since, he also hadn't shown any particular zeal for the task. Maybe his telepathy had helped him to understand his sovereign's feelings on the matter even better than Anthony had himself at the time.

Dirk Holme, literally stabbed in the back. _That_ part was certainly unexpected. "Any idea who we have to thank for this? Wait." Anthony frowned. "Where did you say he was found -- Maesbury? Isn't that…?"

"I think we may owe my lord Xavier of Maesbury a debt," Remy said wryly. "You may not have Holme's missing daughter in hand, but at least you are now rid of her troublesome father."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles requests a favor from Erik, Henry shares information with the sheriff, and Moira has too much time on her hands.

Morning found Erik in his own workshop, running some experiments on bronze alloys. He'd noticed some interesting results by adding nickel into the mixture, and wanted to see how well it withstood heat, so had actually fired up his small forge for once. Besides, working with metal was always a good way to clear his mind. Armando might be right: his interest in this murder was bordering on obsessive, and taking a few steps back might help him to see the bigger picture more clearly.

The metalwork was engrossing enough that some minutes had passed before he realized he was being watched.

"I didn't mean to interrupt!" Charles said from the doorway. "My goodness, you must be sweltering in here."

If anything, Charles was the one who looked a bit flushed. His eyes flashed up and down Erik's tall frame, and he blinked a few times rapidly.

Erik set down his tools and stepped away from the forge, tamping down a brief flare of amusement. This man could well be a murderer, after all. "I'm fine. Just passing by, were you?"

"Not exactly." Any hint of...well, whatever that moment had been, it was gone now. Charles was all business. "I've just been up to the castle. The king grows restless, now that the siege is won, and begins making plans to move on."

Erik shrugged. "Glad to hear it. The town will be all too happy to return to normal." Well, as normal as could be possible in a nation still at war with itself. But in the end, the local authorities mattered far more to the smallfolk than any distant King or Empress. As long as Remy LeBeau proved even a vaguely competent sheriff, and the fighting removed itself from their borders, life in Shrewsbury would go on much as it always had, for good or ill.

"And you as well, I imagine," Charles said, with the ghost of a smile. He stepped within the workshop, where he would be at least shaded from the unforgiving August sun, though it wasn't any cooler than outside. "Though I've heard it mentioned that you were a soldier once yourself, and you're certainly young enough to take up arms again, if you so chose. I don't suppose you ever miss the thrill of battle?"

"Which thrill would that be?" Erik asked drily. "The endless slogging through mud and shit? The smell of corpses bloating in the heat? The screams of young men dying before they're even old enough to shave?" He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. "The only people who talk of the glory of war are those who've never fought in one."

It came out harsher than he'd intended, but he wouldn't apologize for it. He could still see the ninety-five dead men they'd laid out in the castle ward, all with the same rope marks about their necks and wrists. Well, all but one.

"I said nothing of glory," Charles said quietly. "But you're right, it was a foolish question. Forgive me. I may not have your breadth of experience with battles, but I've seen more than enough to know they're not to be undertaken lightly. And yet here I am, newly sworn to King Anthony even though I could have declared for none and hidden out this war snug within my own keep, praying the worst of it would simply pass me by."

"No, you couldn't have." Erik wasn't sure why he said it, but once the words slipped out, he knew it was true. He might not know precisely what game Charles was playing here in Shrewsbury, but a coward he was not. "And I respect that. There are certainly causes worth fighting and dying for. I just don't understand how a pretty crown is one of them."

"The crown itself may not be," Charles said. "But the hope of peace is, for all our sakes."

"And you think Anthony Stark can bring England any measure of peace?"

"I know that Emma Frost certainly will not." A distinct chill entered Charles's tone that Erik had never heard before. "And can you offer up a better alternative than Anthony? Because believe me, my friend, the other possibilities I can imagine are far worse."

That brought Erik pause. In truth, he paid little attention to petty English politics. Either King or Empress would eventually prevail in this civil war, and it made little difference to him which, so long as they ended it quickly. But the thought of new contenders emerging for the throne was an unsettling one.

"You said you weren't just passing by," Erik said, wary now. "What brings you here today, Charles?"

Charles stepped in closer, away from the open doors. "A word of forewarning, for you and your friends at the abbey. As I said, the king is planning to move on. He looks to his supplies for the next march forth. This siege cost him dear, and he has more men now to feed and mount. The order will come for all homesteads to be searched, and a tithe of all fodder and provisions in store commandeered for his army. As well as any and all horses fit to ride. None will be exempted, not even the abbey stables." He pulled a face. "Sorry I am to be the bearer of such news, but the king and his captains are keeping it close until the search begins tomorrow. Mine is the only warning you're likely to get."

"Well, I've no horse to lose, but the rest is burden enough, so I thank you for it." The tithe of provisions was to be expected, after a siege of this nature, and fortunately Erik could rely upon the abbey for support if need arose. The intrusion upon his privacy would be far less pleasant, given his past, so he did genuinely appreciate the notice. But why warn Erik, specifically?

And how should Charles know the king's private plans, if not through telepathy?

The air in the workshop was heavy and too warm, the fire in the forge still maintaining a low, steady burn. Sunlight slanted in through the open doors and shutters, but Charles was standing out of its reach, his face shadowed. Even so, his gaze was steady and piercingly blue. Even if he weren't reading Erik's mind at the moment, he had to know that Erik couldn't simply let this slip past unnoticed.

_I know about your Gift,_ Erik thought clearly. _And you must know that I know. What game are we playing now?_

Nothing for it but to ask outright: "How is it you are privy to the king's counsel in this way? I didn't realize you'd risen so quickly in his favor."

"Ah, but apparently I have," Charles said. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. "He called upon me this morning to express his gratitude -- obliquely, of course, but nonetheless. I seem to have performed a great service to the crown."

_Raven,_ Erik thought, ice trickling down his spine at the possibility. He hadn't seen her since the afternoon before. Had Charles somehow come upon her in those few hours? Without his being entirely conscious of it, some of his iron tools began to hum faintly on the wall of the workshop.

"I imagine the rumors will eventually make their way through the town," Charles continued coolly, as though unaware of Erik's silent reaction. Perhaps he truly was. Erik doubted it. "Dirk Holme was found dead near Oswestry. Right at the edge of my own lands at Maesbury, in fact."

That was _not_ any sort of news Erik had foreseen. The iron around him stilled. "What?"

"Before you ask, no, I had nothing to do with it, no matter what the king might think."

Erik nodded, frowning. Not that he could take Charles's word for it, but there was a certain sharpness in his tone that had the ring of truth. Charles was not happy to be given credit for this death. "He wasn't killed by the king's own men, then?"

"Knife to the back, they tell me," Charles said shortly. "And then left to rot in the marshes. It's lucky he was found so quickly; a few more days, and there would be little enough to identify him at all."

"Murder, then."

"Well, he _was_ wanted by the king's justice for treason, so I don't think anyone's going to be asking too many questions." Charles gave Erik a pointed look. "Don't expect King Anthony to give you or Brother Henry permission to poke about on your own in Holme's case, as he has for your one corpse too many. He seemed quite content to let the matter drop."

A warning not to pry? A backhanded way to nudge them away from Allerdyce's death, as well? Or simply cautioning him to keep the information close?

"Why tell me anything at all?" Erik asked baldly. Perhaps he might startle an honest answer out of him. "Dirk Holme meant nothing to me. I never knew the man. Some in the town will mourn him -- more than they'd ever mourn Cain Marko, that's for certain -- but I could have simply heard the story when it swept through the Foregate, as it surely will soon enough. Why the advance notice?"

"Holme may have meant nothing to _you_, but he was once a friend to _me_," Charles snapped. "And moreover, he was a father. Which means there's one person, at least, who should hear of his death before it becomes common gossip!"

A tight knot tangled in Erik's chest. They stared at each other. At some point, Charles must have taken a few steps toward him without either of them realizing it, closing the distance between them. He'd practically hissed the last few words into Erik's face, standing so near that he needed to tilt his head up to meet Erik's eyes. Erik stared down at him, hardly breathing at all.

"If it were my father who'd just been killed," Charles went on, voice very low, "I know I would want to learn of it in private, from a friend. Not be surprised by it out in public, where _anyone might witness my reaction_."

Erik took in a slow breath, then let it out, keeping his mind purposefully blank. He inclined his head in the barest hint of a nod.

"Good." Charles stayed there a moment more, his gaze unreadable. Then he sighed and stepped back. His tone lightened. "Oh, and regarding the king's orders for tomorrow, I meant to ask you. I have four horses of my own in the abbey's stables right now, and no reason to believe myself exempt from the search for fresh mounts. To be perfectly honest, I have no desire to see my two best horses drafted into army service. Do you happen to know of any place where I might help them escape Remy LeBeau's foraging parties? Where they might be safe and secure, and well out of sight?"

He was too airy and casual, now. Erik had no doubt he really did have two horses to be stashed away. He was equally certain that this had nothing to do with keeping a couple of brute beasts out of the army's hands, no matter the quality of their breeding. "Only two of the four?" he asked, stalling.

Charles flashed him a grin. "Well, it would appear very suspicious if I didn't have _any_. Let Remy seize the two nags, I can afford that much. So what do you say, do you know of such a place?" His smile faded, but there was still a spark of it in his eyes. "You did promise not to turn me down without due thought, remember."

Well, Erik would never discover Charles's game if he declined to play, after all. "I did. And I do know of a place off the beaten path, where a couple of horses might lie up in safety."

"Excellent." Charles didn't ask him where, or anything further about it. "Tonight, then? The orders will be announced tomorrow, I have no time to waste. Assuming it's close enough to go there and back before morning?" At Erik's nod he said, satisfied, "Then you can ride with me, and we'll return on foot."

"Best not be seen riding out together," Erik cautioned. "Though of course you can exercise your own horses as you see fit. If you get them out to St. Giles--" He named a chapel belonging to the abbey, some half a mile or so down at the far end of the Foregate. "--then I can meet you there at the Compline bells. It should be growing dark by then."

Charles nodded. "That sounds reasonable. How far from there, do you estimate?"

"By track through the Long Forest, perhaps four miles riding. Shorter by nearly a mile on the way back -- there are quicker paths I know by foot, just none I'd trust to a horse at night."

"I think I can manage a bit of a walk," Charles said with a laugh. "So long as it doesn't rain!"

"It won't," Erik said, sure of it. Rain came in August only in thunderous storms, which could be sensed building well in advance. The night should be clear.

"Very well." Charles gave him a brisk nod and headed for the open door. "I'll see you tonight, then, at the Compline bells." He paused there a moment, glancing back at Erik, his eyes bright. Erik wasn't sure what, exactly, he was searching for, but whatever it was, Charles seemed to find it. "Looking forward to it," he added cheekily, and was gone.

It was only several minutes of deep thought later that Erik realized: Charles hadn't actually spoken those last words aloud.

But Erik had heard him, in his head, as clearly as though he had.

* * *

Erik's first order of business, then, was to find Raven.

After dampening the forge, he took a meandering, roundabout route through the Foregate and abbey grounds, on the off-chance that Charles thought to follow him. But there was no indication that he was being watched, so eventually he allowed himself to approach the herbarium. It was the most likely place to start, since "Bobby" was still nominally under Henry's supervision.

And there he found them both, thankfully, chatting together amiably out in the garden as they sorted through the newly dried herbs that had been hanging from the workshop rafters. Raven-as-Bobby gave him a bright smile and wave as he approached. Henry, though, saw the look on Erik's face and set down his herbs at once.

"Erik," he said in greeting, getting to his feet. He brushed off his habit. "Something tells me you'd prefer we move this conversation withindoors."

"If your work can keep a minute? Good." Erik jerked his head at Raven. "You too. This concerns you most of all."

The smile fell off her face. Well, the worst was yet to come.

He waited until they were all three inside the workshop with door and shutters closed before speaking. "Charles Xavier came to see me this morning. He brought some disturbing news from the castle, which I'm hoping to have beaten here." But of course he had. Raven wouldn't have appeared so happy in the garden if she'd known. "There's no gentle way to tell you this, Raven. Your father is dead."

Blue rippled across Bobby's rough, boyish features, and for an instant, wide yellow eyes stared beseechingly out of an indigo face. But just as quickly glimpsed, it was gone, and Raven's now-familiar female form remained, her hazel eyes glazed with shock. She sank gracelessly onto the nearest bench.

"You could still have been gentler than _that_," Henry muttered before taking a seat beside her. He shifted awkwardly for a moment, as though not sure whether to put a comforting arm around her shoulders, then settled for patting her arm instead. "Raven, I'm so sorry."

She swallowed hard. "How?" she managed. "Did he tell you?"

"Are you sure you want to--"

But Erik cut off Henry's well-meaning protest. Raven was a woman grown. She wouldn't have asked if she didn't need to know. "Stabbed in the back, he said. Not by one of the king's men. They found him in the marshes by Maesbury."

Raven covered her mouth with her hand, squeezing her eyes shut. Eventually, she let out a long, shaky breath and looked back up at him. Not a single tear fell. "By Charles's lands, you mean."

"Yes. He told me so himself. He said he had nothing to do with it."

"How do you know he was telling you the truth?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "He could be lying about -- about any of it!"

"He could," Erik agreed. "But I don't think he is. Not about this, at least."

Her eyes flashed gold for an instant. "He could have…_convinced_ you."

Erik recalled the disgust in Charles's voice at receiving royal thanks for an act so clearly distasteful to him. The heat of him when he'd gotten right up into Erik's face, his blue eyes lit with a fire not unlike Raven's right now. The pair of them had more in common than she seemed to realize. "He did convince me," Erik told her coolly. "But not with his Gift. He told me the truth as far as he knew it, and I imagine it would be very difficult indeed to lie to Charles Xavier. I'm sorry, Raven, but your father was murdered, and not by your betrothed."

She flinched at that, but apparently accepted his judgement, at least for now. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared out at nothing in particular. "But by someone."

"Yes." Erik leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the empty table between them. "I'm sorry to ask it, Raven, but do you have any guess who might have done this?"

Raven shuddered, hugging herself more tightly. She still didn't cry. Too much in shock, perhaps. "He escaped Shrewsbury with Cain Marko."

Erik and Henry exchanged a grim look over her head. It wasn't the first time Erik had wondered about Lord Marko. "Do you have any reason to suspect his own liege lord?"

"I don't _know_," she burst out. "I never liked him, he was an unpleasant man. And I know Father didn't really trust him. He didn't tell Marko about John's mission, or the treasury--"

"So you did know about the saddlebag."

Raven blinked up at him, then flushed, glancing quickly at Henry and then away. "I...yes. I told Brother Henry as much last night."

"She did," Henry said hastily. "We were going to tell you today. Raven has the saddlebag. She took it when she ran, and hid it."

Erik allowed himself a small, approving smile. "Good girl."

"I promise I never lied to you, I just -- what?"

Erik shrugged. "I don't blame you for keeping it secret. It's what I'd have done. I don't suppose you'll tell us where?"

She shook her head firmly. "It's better if no one else knows. Especially not you, Erik." At his surprise, she explained: "Well, Charles seems to have taken a shine to you, hasn't he? Or at least he keeps going round to your workshop. Even if you're right, and he didn't kill my father, that doesn't mean he's not involved in this mess another way. He still might have murdered John. And he'd _love_ to get his hands on that treasury."

Raven sounded very, very certain of herself. The men exchanged another glance. They _had_ been wondering if Charles might have a particular motivation to make a play for the saddlebag. "You know what's in it, then?" Henry asked.

"I haven't peeked inside, if that's what you're asking," Raven said, a touch defensively. "But my father did mention the Empress's crown. It's something to do with her Gift, I know that much. Of course Charles would want to prevent it getting to her! What other telepath do we know who could use it?"

"You wouldn't need to _be_ a telepath to want to keep it away from the Empress," Henry pointed out. "But it does make sense to keep Charles from finding it."

"Which reminds me," Erik said. "That's not the only news Charles had to share. It sounds like the king's officers will be doing one more thorough search of all Shrewsbury tomorrow -- abbey included. For a tithe of provisions, and any horses fit to ride, mostly. But Raven, you had better pray you've hidden that saddlebag very well indeed, or it might wind up in King Anthony's hands after all."

* * *

After some brief further discussion, Raven quietly requested some time to herself, still understandably shaken by the news of her father's death. Henry promised her use of his workshop for as long as she needed privacy. "If anyone does come knocking, just shift into Bobby and send them on their way," he told her. "I'll deal with them later."

Once they'd left her alone to her grief, by mutual agreement Henry and Erik made their way slowly out toward the gatehouse. "Armando should be warned of the army's upcoming raid," Erik said. "Not that there's anything he can do to prevent it, but he'll know the right ears to whisper in, if need be."

Henry nodded, but he didn't much care about that. The abbey would survive the loss of a few supplies and horses. He had more pressing questions on his mind. "Erik, why on earth would Charles Xavier have brought all this information to you?"

"He knows about Raven," Erik said, keeping his voice low. "I got the strangest impression that he was trying to _warn_ her."

But Henry had stopped dead in his tracks at that. "He _knows_?" he repeated, grabbing Erik's arm. "You're sure?"

"Not a doubt in my mind," Erik said grimly. "Maybe not what she looks like now -- though I wouldn't be surprised if he could pick her out of a crowd, no matter what skin she's wearing -- but certainly that I'm helping her, at least. And he claims to be looking for a place to hide a couple of horses, of all the damned things."

He quickly filled Henry in on his meeting with Charles that morning, or at least the broad strokes of it. Henry had the oddest feeling that Erik was deliberately leaving some things out, but what he did share was bad enough. "I don't like this, Erik. You were right, what you said to Raven -- it's very difficult indeed to lie to a telepath like Charles Xavier. Why would you ever agree to help him tonight?"

"Because it's the only way to figure out what he's up to," Erik said impatiently. "All this cat-and-mousing about isn't getting us the answers we need. The king will be leaving Shrewsbury within the week, with most of his army and camp followers. If John Allerdyce's murderer is among them, we'll lose any chance of bringing him to justice. We're running out of time."

"And if you were right all along, and Charles _is_ the killer?" Henry demanded. "You're going off alone with him into the woods tonight!"

Erik shrugged. "He has his tricks, I have mine. Don't be so quick to discount me if it comes to a fight, Henry. And besides," he added, forestalling the obvious disapproval on Henry's face, "if he is our murderer, then it's because he's after that saddlebag. Which I don't have, and don't even know where it is. He has no reason to attack me without that."

"You're taking a very stupid risk," Henry said bluntly. "I wish I knew why."

"Ah, well, talk to Armando." Erik gave him a faint smile. "He's been complaining about my foolhardiness for years."

Henry frowned at him as severely as he knew how. From Erik's chuckle, it wasn't particularly fearsome. "Right now, I think it's you who should talk to Armando," he grumbled. "I've got better things to do." At Erik's questioning look, he sighed. "You're right about one thing, at least. We are running out of time before the king leaves. So I'm going to go talk to his sheriff about what we found yesterday -- leaving Raven out of it, obviously! -- and see if we can't get any closer to the truth of the matter."

It was well that Henry had spent his whole life at the abbey and in this town, for he scarce paid any attention to his surroundings as he made his way up to the castle, trusting to his feet to take him along the familiar roads while his thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

John Allerdyce's murder, and then Dirk Holme's, so close together -- were they connected, or simply foul coincidence? Betrayal and death always came closely intwined with civil war, and Holme had been a hunted fugitive; there need be no grand conspiracy linking the two. Days and many miles apart, with no commonality in the method of the killing, or in the disposal of the bodies. There had been no such calculated care taken with Holme's body, for certain: a knife in the back, then left to rot in a marsh. No attempt at concealment there. No strangle-cord, either. And who could have even known where to find the fugitive lord? More likely by far that Raven's vague suspicion was correct, that Cain Marko had betrayed his own sworn vassal in the course of their flight from Shrewsbury.

Stabbed in the back, Erik had said.

But even so -- _why_?

Henry's mind kept circling back to John Allerdyce and his mysterious mission to the Empress. He had been Holme's personal courier. The one other person who absolutely, positively had known the contents of that message was Dirk Holme himself, and now both were dead. Perhaps that had been the killer's sole intention after all, and this whole nonsense with treasury and crown and saddlebag was just...superfluous.

He didn't realize he'd reached the castle until the guards at the gate stopped him and demanded to know his business there. Fortunately, one recognized him from his efforts with the garrison dead, and went off willingly to notify Remy LeBeau.

Some time passed before Remy was able to see him, but Henry didn't mind kicking his heels a while. It gave him the chance to consider how much information he ought to share with the sheriff. Friendly though Remy might be, he was King Anthony's man, and might not be inclined to be so helpful if he knew the reason for John Allerdyce's presence in Shropshire. And Henry didn't want to bring the Summers family to the law's attention yet, either. It might become necessary later on, if they found the killer and needed to prove his guilt, but Henry would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Finally, he was escorted to the inner chamber where Remy had set up office. Remy stood at once to greet him, waving off the guard and shutting the door firmly behind them. "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, Brother! You catch me at a busy time, I'm afraid, but when is it not so?" He cordially led Henry to a chair, and took his own seat behind a writing desk. "In truth, I had not expected to see you back here so soon. If only my own sergeants were so diligent with their reports! But you have the advantage of us yet, being familiar with this town and its people already. We're still considered strangers here."

"I'm sure you'll settle in quickly enough," Henry said, trying for diplomatic and likely landing on the wrong side of awkward.

Remy flashed him a smile. "I hope so! So tell me, Brother, what brings you here this morning. I assume this is regarding your murdered man?"

"John Allerdyce -- yes."

"Yes, I have made some enquiries of my own, but none seem familiar with the name. A stranger in these parts himself, clearly." Remy snapped his fingers. "But that reminds me! My men found a horse wandering by the southwestern loop of the Severn. A fine mount, with quality tack. It's possible it belonged to this Allerdyce."

Henry brightened, leaning forward. "The horse -- was it lame?"

Remy gave him a quizzical look. "As a matter of fact, yes, it had an injured foot. But how could you have guessed that?"

"I found what I believe to be the place where the attack occurred, along a forest trail in Frankwell," Henry told him, careful to lend his tale a degree of uncertainty so as to avoid implicating Raven. "There had been caltrops strewn across the path."

"Caltrops!" Remy's frown deepened. "What, in that western forest? The fighting never crossed to that side of the river! I'd assumed the poor beast must have simply misstepped in its flight. Are you certain?"

"Absolutely," Henry said. "I found one, in fact."

Remy brooded upon this for a long moment. "I do not like the sound of this. Caltrops imply a degree of premeditation. Although I suppose footpads may lay such traps for unwary riders."

They might, it was true. And that was an avenue of investigation that Remy and his men would be far better suited to pursue than Henry himself. Who knew what they might turn up in the process? "I have reason to believe Allerdyce carried some wealth upon his person that night," he said hesitantly. "No great fortune, but coin enough to tempt a thief. Have you heard any other reports of lawless men preying upon travelers in these parts?"

"It's common enough in times of civil strife," Remy said ruefully. "Though I hope to root such criminals out of this shire, at least, as its sheriff. Once the king and his army set off for Gloucester, I'll be able to devote more time and men to the problem." He studied Henry's face a moment, tilting his head. "How do you know what he carried with him? Has aught been found of it? The horse carried nothing but its tack."

"Ah," Henry said. "I found a stray coin in the hut where Allerdyce was attacked. Good silver. Likely it fell from his purse during the struggle. Stands to reason there would be more."

Remy raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Very logical."

Henry offered him a weak smile and said nothing more.

Eventually, Remy sighed, shaking his head. "You know, I'm well aware of the possibility that Allerdyce was of the Empress's party. It's how you got a name for him at all, isn't it? Someone willing to whisper it to a monk, but not the king's sheriff?" When Henry opened his mouth to protest, Remy waved it off. "Oh, don't fret, it makes no difference to me in this case. A man's allegiance is his own, and no one deserves to be murdered for a handful of coin. And who knows but his purpose in coming to Shrewsbury may have been to seek service with a new master! He would hardly be the first such."

"It's possible," Henry allowed. For it was! What if Erik's wild guess had been right, and Alex had indeed killed Allerdyce for betraying their cause? Such things did happen.

"Well, if Allerdyce _was_ known to any the old garrison here, there may yet be somewhat I can discover of him," Remy said briskly. "Captain Stane questioned a number of Marko's men himself, before they were executed. Mayhap one of them mentioned Allerdyce. It's a slim chance, but no harm in asking. Oh, don't worry, I'll do it myself," he added with a laugh, correctly interpreting the distaste in Henry's expression. "Stane thinks your pursuit of justice is a colossal waste of time, and he'd turn you out without a second thought. But I've served under him for some years now, I know how to manage the old wolf. No promises, but who knows? Perhaps we'll get lucky." He gave Henry a wink. "I've always enjoyed a roll of the dice."

* * *

Moira MacTaggert did not take well to idleness.

At home, of course, there were countless tasks to occupy her days. She'd taken an active interest in managing her family's lands from a young age -- her mother had passed away when she was only thirteen, so she'd been functioning as the lady of the household since then. And she was good at it. In her absence, her steward was surely doing an excellent job, but she'd been gone less than a week and was already growing twitchy and restless.

This morning, she'd tended to her correspondence, then attended Mass at the abbey as had become her wont. She attended nearly every service, in fact, simply because it was something to do. And surely a few extra prayers would not go amiss, in times like these.

After the service ended, she took a light meal in the grace house the abbey had provided her, with her maidservant. They got on well -- Anwen had been with her family for more than twenty years, and was more friend than servant to her mistress -- so their repast was pleasant. They shared some stories of Kevin's childhood, some of the silly scrapes he'd gotten into. It was good to be able to think of her little brother with fondness and laughter. It helped relieve Moira's grief somewhat, at least for a little while. 

"I noticed that all the shops along the Foregate have reopened this morning," Anwen mentioned as they cleaned up. "It might make for a nice afternoon out of doors -- that is, if Captain LeBeau won't be calling upon you!"

Moira smiled. "He did mention that he would try to stop by later in the afternoon."

"Well, that'll be a treat," Anwen said cheekily. "Never met a man with more apt a name than that LeBeau."

"I rue the day I ever taught you any French," Moira laughed. "But a walk along the Foregate does sound nice in the meantime."

It was a lovely day, if still rather too hot under the sun. Moira lived far enough out in the countryside that she rarely had the opportunity to do any idle shopping, and Shrewsbury was a trading town, with close ties to the Welsh merchants just across the border. She found some delicately embroidered sheepskin gloves, far finer than her own serviceable skill with a needle could ever recreate, and decided to indulge herself just this once. While that was her only actual purchase, she did also make note of some thick, soft wools in another shop, worth returning to later.

Eventually her path led her to the smith's workshop, and she fingered the heavy brooch at her throat with an impulsive thought. He did seem to do some delicate craftmanship as well as ironworking, judging by what she could see on his workbenches. Perhaps a moment's conversation.

"Master Lehnsherr," she called from the doorway. "Might I have a quick word?"

He glanced up from his bench, where he'd been carefully cutting sheets of what might be steel. All without touching a single tool, she noticed. "Yes. Mistress MacTaggert, is it?"

"Well remembered," she said with a smile, stepping within. "You do work with bronze and silver as well as iron, don't you?"

"Any and all metals," Lehnsherr agreed promptly. "Was there something in particular you needed?"

"_Need_ is perhaps too strong a word. But I'm considering commissioning a small piece." She unclasped the boar's-head brooch from her light cloak and proffered it for him to study. "This is too heavy for me to wear as a brooch, honestly -- I'm concerned it will damage my cloak. But I very much would like to keep it in some fashion. Do you think you might be able to rework it into a pendant, or even a belt buckle?"

"May I?" At her nod, he lifted it gently from her hand. "This is beautiful craftsmanship. Is there a meaning to the sigil?"

Moira smiled sadly. "Our family crest. I'm the only one left to bear it."

Lehnsherr's eyes met hers evenly, without pity. She appreciated that forthrightness. "My condolences. Your brother's, was it? I remember you found him in the castle ward, after the battle."

"Yes."

He nodded to himself, turning the brooch over in his hand, running his thumb along its surface as though gleaning something from the texture of it. Well, she did know he had a Gift for metal.

"Odd," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "I could swear this one is familiar somehow."

Moira shrugged. "You may well have encountered Kevin in the town. I don't know how long he was among the garrison here, but at least for the month of the siege, certainly. And he would always have worn that."

Lehnsherr's hand abruptly clenched into a fist around the brooch. "No," he said shortly. "I never met him." He took a breath, then released it into a smile, opening his palm again to her. "I do believe I could rework this piece for you, if that's your will. Would you like to hold on to it until you decide for certain?"

There was a false note in his smile, discordant. It unsettled her. "Keep it," she said lightly. "I trust in your knowledge of metals. Remake it however you think best, and send word to me at the abbey when it's ready."

She could feel his eyes follow her all the way back out onto the street.

It was still an hour or so before Vespers, and Moira felt yet too restless to return to the house. She passed by the abbey gatehouse, where Brother Armando gave her a smile and a wave. But he was busy assisting some newly arrived guests, so she didn't stop there for another chat. Instead she recalled the other monk who'd been so helpful at the castle on that awful day after the battle -- Henry, wasn't it? The herbalist. The hospitaller had pointed out his garden and workshop to her when she'd first arrived at the abbey.

The little garden was lovely in the afternoon sunlight, with bees humming amongst the flowers and the scents of various herbs thick in the warm air. The workshop door was closed, so she knocked on it lightly. If no one was within, she'd simply come back another time.

But a moment later the door opened, and Moira smiled at the boy who appeared there. Too young to be a monk, clearly, and dressed in a simple homespun cotte rather than the black Benedictine habit. "Hello!" Moira said. "I was looking for Brother Henry."

The boy blinked at her, then shrugged. "I'm sorry, my lady, he had business in the town. Someone in need of his medicines, I think. He should be back in time for Vespers. Is there aught I could help you with? I'm Bobby, I'm his assistant."

"No, nothing pressing," Moira assured him. "I simply wanted to thank him for all he did for the dead men of the garrison, this week. It could not have been an easy duty. But I can easily come back another time, I'm a guest here at the abbey."

"I know," Bobby said -- blurted, really, and then flushed. "I mean, I've seen you in the church. Sorry."

Moira gave him another smile. "I suppose I do stand out amongst the brethren -- you don't see many women here, do you?"

"Not many, no." Bobby hesitated, his hand on the door. "What name shall I give Henry? I'm sure he'd be glad to know you stopped by."

"Moira MacTaggert."

Bobby blinked rapidly again. "MacTaggert? Wait -- did you have kin among the garrison?"

"I did," Moira agreed softly. "A brother, Kevin." She reached instinctively to the clasp of her cloak, where his brooch had been, then dropped her hand again.

The lad was gaping at her now, wide-eyed. "Oh! He was -- I mean, I knew him. Knew of him, anyway. I'm so sorry for your loss!"

"You knew Kevin?" This was the first person she'd yet met here who claimed any acquaintance with her brother, and Moira felt her heart thump painfully in her chest. "How?"

"I didn't really," Bobby said quickly, tugging at the hem of his cotte. "My, um, uncle was a soldier in the garrison. He served under Lord Holme. So I knew a few of the men in passing. Kevin was Holme's personal squire, though, wasn't he?"

Moira pressed her hand to her throat. "I don't know," she said quietly. "He was estranged from our family, because of his allegiance to the Empress. I didn't even know for sure that he'd been here in Shrewsbury, until I found his body." She took a steadying breath. "Your uncle…?"

Bobby's eyes darkened. "Dead," he muttered, and there was a very real grief there.

"Then I'm sorry for your loss, as well," Moira said gently, and laid her hand on his shoulder, just for a moment.

Bobby nodded, then pulled away. "Thank you, my lady," he said. "I'll let Brother Henry know you came by."

After that encounter, brief and strange though it had been, Moira had no further desire for company. She made her way back to the grace house, deep in thought, and was startled to see Remy approaching from the other direction. She'd almost forgotten his planned visit! Forcibly shaking off her distraction, she summoned up a bright smile and went to greet him.

Remy's company was as charming as ever, and very nearly managed to pull her out of that renewed crush of grief for her young, willful brother. He made light conversation about the state of the castle and King Anthony's moods, and complimented her taste in gloves when she showed off her new purchase. His own riding gloves were of a very similar style, albeit without the feminine embroidery, as he demonstrated with a wink. He then insisted upon accompanying her to the church for Vespers, of course, and expressed his genuine regret that he would be unable to dine with her that evening, since he had further preparations to make at the castle in advance of the morrow's work. Though he could not discuss it outright, he implied that the king had particular orders to announce in the morning, which Remy seemed personally ambivalent about.

"Of course his Grace must take thought to his muster, and be sure all his men are well mounted and provisioned for the march," Remy remarked as they made their way out of the church. "But I do wish he might be persuaded to extend certain privileges to the abbey above the normal townsfolk -- these are men of God, after all. Alas, this abbot was slow to accept Anthony's rightful rule here in England, and I'm afraid the king is not quite ready to forgive. If I should be compelled to enforce orders I'd rather see stop at the gates, I hope the good brothers will understand that it brings me no pleasure whatsoever."

"You take too much upon yourself," Moira chided. "Of course they know you mean no harm by it."

"Yes, but I don't wish to damage my relationship with the abbey." Remy flashed her a wry smile. "My writ may be secular in nature, but it will be the stronger for the support of the monastic authorities."

Moira allowed herself to clasp his hand a moment, warmly. "Don't fret, Remy. All will smooth itself out in time."

He made his obeisance to her at the gate, reclaiming his horse to ride off purposefully back into the town. Moira sighed, uncertain if she was disappointed or relieved by his departure. She could never quite shake off the impression that she was less a _person_ to Remy than a prize to be won. Well, even if courtship _was_ only a game to him, it was still one she could enjoy herself, and there would be time enough to sort out her personal feelings once all was settled here in Shrewsbury. And it was fortunate that Remy had been unable to remain for supper, since she already had plans that did not include him.

Anwen greeted her at the door to their temporary home, with a nod to indicate her guest was already waiting within.

"I'm afraid I can't stay long," Charles told her, rising from his chair with a smile. "My horses have need of some light exercise this evening."

"Do they now," Moira said drily. "So that's the excuse you're making?"

"It's not an excuse, it's the only solution I can come up with. Have you a better suggestion?"

Moira sighed and sank into her own chair. "No, though I've been worrying at the matter all day. Does it have to be tonight? Given more time…"

"I'm running out of that, I'm afraid," Charles said. "Say what you will about King Anthony, once the man makes up his mind about something, he moves very quickly indeed."

"Yes, Remy's already preemptively falling all over himself apologizing for it." Moira smiled distractedly at Anwen, who was bringing in the evening meal. Once the maidservant withdrew, she went on. "I do worry, though, Charles. Aren't you placing a great deal of trust in Master Lehnsherr? If you're wrong--"

Charles shrugged. "Not much risk of that, at this point."

"He's far and away the most talented metalworker in Shropshire," Moira pressed on, determinedly. "And the only Gifted one we're aware of. Who else could have constructed that device in the castle?"

"It's because he's so damn Gifted that I _do_ trust it wasn't him," Charles said. "If Erik had been the one to build it, believe me, Moira, it would have _worked_." He glanced out the window, at the setting sun. "I do need to head out, though."

She reached out and caught his arm as he passed her. "Just...be careful, please," she sighed. "Wherever he's leading you, it'll be a place _he_ feels safe. Where he thinks he has the advantage, whether he means to press it or not."

"I'm counting on it." Charles covered her hand with his own, giving it a light squeeze. "Don't worry, Moira. Whatever anyone else thinks, I'm never really at a disadvantage." He tapped his temple lightly, winking.

"You rely on your Gift too much," Moira told him severely, but she did release him. "One day, someone _will_ manage to outthink you, Charles, telepathy or no."

Charles laughed as he left her. "I certainly hope so! Imagine how dull life would be without surprises."

When the door closed softly behind him, Moira sighed, rubbing her own temples. It was going to be a very long night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik and Charles take a ride together by night, and the king's orders turn the abbey upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find the beautiful art that accompanies this chapter [here](https://muddled-mayhem.tumblr.com/post/188166258206/heres-my-contribution-to-the-2019-x-men-big) \-- all credit to the artist **muddled-mayhem**.

The church bells rang out to call worshippers to the Compline service, their tones warm and resonant. Erik never minded their regular pealing over the course of the days. He'd always found something soothing about a call to prayer, no matter what the religion, and irrespective of his own faith. Only bells, here in England -- none of the prolonged trumpeting of the shofar, or the piercing singing of the muezzins. Sometimes he did miss that variety, even if there was little else worth reminiscing of his years in the Holy Land.

Charles was waiting at the far end of the Foregate, where the road forked toward the parish of St. Giles. He sat upon a brown horse with a black mane, loosely gripping the second horse's reins as well. It had a dappled coloring, mostly dark gray. Good horses for riding stealthily by night, Erik thought.

It had been some time since he last rode, but the mechanics hadn't changed. He mounted the dappled horse easily, wincing a little as he adjusted to the seat of the saddle, then glanced over to see a smirk on Charles's face.

"Well, lead on," Charles said, eyes glinting in the deepening twilight.

They rode in quiet at first, until they left the road by Sutton to veer off into the dense growth of the Long Forest. The night was clear and still, and some moonlight managed to filter through the canopy of leaves, giving Erik occasional, unexpectedly clear glimpses of his companion: the bright blue of his eyes, the smooth curve of his neck, his pale hands firmly guiding the reins. He seemed looser here than Erik had yet seen him; more at ease, even relaxed. Charles caught him looking, and smiled.

"It's very peaceful out here away from everyone," Charles remarked, as though unprompted. "It's rare that I can simply enjoy the quiet."

To Erik's ears, the night was teeming with life: wind rustling through leaves, nocturnal creatures stirring, insects chirping. But no human noises, apart from their own quiet passage. And for a telepath…

"Is it often noisy, in your head?" Erik asked, surprising himself. Well, no use pretending he didn't know. Charles himself had deliberately destroyed that illusion that morning.

Charles huffed out a breath, something wavering between a laugh and a sigh. "My friend, you have no idea." He studied Erik sidelong through the shadows. "That's not usually the first question people ask me, when it comes to my Gift."

"I can only imagine," Erik said drily. "Do you ever give them a straight answer?"

"That depends upon the question."

"Fair enough." Erik guided his horse around some fallen branches that littered the trail; it must have been some time since anyone had passed this way. The last big storm had been well over a week ago. He let those practical thoughts drift to the forefront of his mind while he ruminated for a few long minutes. Finally he asked, "Is it always…_on_, your Gift? Can you not help but always be listening?"

Charles's lips curved into half a smile. "Are you always aware of the metal around you?"

"Yes," Erik conceded, after a moment's consideration. "It's stronger if I focus, but there's always a sort of background awareness, I suppose. I don't need to think about it."

"There you have it. It's just another sense for me, like hearing, or smell. I can block it out entirely, but that takes more effort and concentration than simply...letting it wash over me. It just is." Charles lifted his shoulders in what might have been a shrug. "I don't pry if I can help it. Honestly, most people's thoughts are fairly uninteresting."

Erik snorted. "Sorry to bore you, then."

"I said _most_ people," Charles remarked mildly. "Not you."

Erik glanced over sharply, but Charles wasn't even looking his way, just gazing out into the trees ahead of them. One of the horses whickered as they navigated around a rocky part of the track.

"What interest could a Norman lordling have in a lowly village smith?" he asked lightly.

Charles laughed outright. "The first thing telepathy taught me is that one's rank has absolutely nothing to do with the quality of one's character. And why shouldn't I find you interesting? From your accent alone, I would know you were born farther from England than I've ever had the opportunity to travel. And if local gossip is at all accurate, you've roamed even further afield than that."

"When have you ever known local gossip to be accurate?"

"More often than you might expect," Charles said with a grin. "Though rarely in all particulars. For example, I highly doubt you were a crusader yourself, unless you're a good decade or so older than you look."

"No," Erik agreed blandly. "Nor would I ever be inclined to take the cross."

"There is that, as well." Charles regarded him with head tilted. "Why settle in Shrewsbury, might I ask? If you had wanted to reconnect with others of your faith here in England, London--"

Erik stiffened in his saddle. "What _faith_, in particular, would you be referring to?"

For once, Charles seemed to have been caught wrong-footed. His grip must have tightened on the reins, for his horse tossed its head and whickered irritably, and he had to spend a few moments soothing it. Eventually he said, "I apologize, Erik. Sometimes, I...overhear things that I have no business knowing, and I don't always realize where those boundaries lie until I've trod firmly upon them."

Erik just grunted in response. They rode on in silence for a few minutes, far less comfortably than before. Finally, Erik said, "By English law, Jews aren't permitted to own land or participate in trade. Did you know that?"

"It's...not something I've ever given much thought to," Charles admitted. "I am sincerely sorry."

"And do you truly wonder," Erik said, with deliberation, "why people react so strongly when they learn of your Gift?"

Charles hunched his shoulders forward, his mouth set in a grim line. "I was born as I am. I cannot change that."

"Nor should you," Erik said fiercely. "And _nor should I._"

At that, Charles's head snapped up like a startled horse, and he stared at Erik so intently that the air between them felt charged with it. Something seemed to loosen in his bearing, and Erik could swear he felt an impression of warmth unfurling upon the edges of his mind. "No," Charles murmured. "I would prefer you exactly as you are."

* * *

  
  
[Art by muddled-mayhem on tumblr](https://muddled-mayhem.tumblr.com/post/188166258206/heres-my-contribution-to-the-2019-x-men-big)  


* * *

A matter of minutes later, they first glimpsed the gleam of light through the trees that indicated their intended destination. Charles craned his neck curiously, then looked to Erik. "So where have you led me, Erik?"

Erik raised an eyebrow, lightly tapping his own temple. "You don't already know?"

"Just that it's a place you consider safe," Charles replied, unoffended. "I wouldn't have come along if I thought I'd be in any danger, but beyond that, no, I leave it to you to explain."

Erik allowed himself the barest hint of a smile. "It's an old grange owned by the abbey, though it's fallen into disuse of late. They've withdrawn what sheep and cattle used to be kept here, given how unchancy the times have become, but do keep on tenants to maintain house and field in the meantime. None would bother looking for horses here, it's known to be all but abandoned. Your beasts should be safe enough. And the tenants are old friends of mine and Armando's."

They had reached the little house by then, and its two occupants had emerged out to the doorway to assess these unexpected guests. Angel was quick to recognize Erik, and flitted out to greet him.

"Erik! What brings you all the way out here, and so late in the evening?"

He dismounted with a grunt, and she clasped his hand warmly, though with a wary eye toward the stranger.

"Our errand's to you, I'm afraid," Erik told her. "The army is commandeering baggage horses for its march out of Shrewsbury, and my lord Xavier here asks that you give these two beasts stabling and shelter for a few days, until the hunt's blown over. They've a better purpose to serve."

He cut Charles a sidelong glance at that, wondering if he'd take the bait. But Charles just smiled as he swung himself out of the saddle. "I will of course repay you for the cost of their keep, my lady."

Angel scoffed and waved him off. "None of that! My name is Angel, I'm no lady. And the abbey keeps us well supplied in crops and feed against their own animals' return, so it's no trouble to us. These are fine horses indeed," she added, stroking the dappled one's neck admiringly. "It will be a joy to spend a few days with them."

From the doorway, her husband just nodded agreeably. Janos's command of English was nowhere near as strong as Angel's, and he was taciturn by nature, content to let her do the talking in any language.

"You're both welcome to take them out for their exercise," Charles said. "They always enjoy a rider who can appreciate their quality!"

"But surrender them to none but us," Erik added.

Angel hummed agreement, gathering the reins of both horses into her hands. They followed docilely as she led them toward the empty stable. The lamplight from the doorway caught and shimmered on her gossamer wings as she passed.

Erik lifted a hand to Janos in parting, and received a nod in return. Then he turned back homeward into the forest, knowing that Charles would follow.

Once they'd left the grange behind a cluster of trees, Charles cleared his throat. "Gifted, both of them?"

It wasn't really a question.

"Armando and I first encountered them in Barcelona, though both hailed from further south," Erik said quietly. "There was a mob chasing Angel out of the city, calling her a witch. In fairness, she _was_ spitting fire at them as she flew away."

Charles nodded, face drawn. "And her husband?"

"Janos can command winds. Whirlwinds, particularly. I don't think you often see those here in England, but they're not unknown in that region. The Catalonians weren't any fonder of Janos than they were of her, believe me." Erik directed them away from the horses' track, veering onto a more overgrown path that could serve as a shortcut on foot. "You Christians may call us 'God's Gifted,' but in my experience, our welcome depends very much upon the nature of those Gifts."

The trail was narrow here, bracketed by thick undergrowth, and Charles's arm brushed against his as they walked. "I know it all too well," he murmured. "They joined you on the road, then?"

"For a time. Our ways parted again in France, and they intended to try their luck in London. This was while old King Henry still lived, of course; none of us were expecting civil war to break out after his death. Once Armando decided to take the cowl here in Shrewsbury, I thought it worth seeking them out." Erik shrugged, though it would likely go unseen in the darkness under the trees. "They deserved a respite. The world had been harsh to them both. But the Benedictines do look kindly upon the Gifted, and this abbot in particular welcomes those whom others...might not. And Janos and Angel are both hard workers and good tenants. The abbey has no reason to regret their association."

"I think you give the Benedictines far too much credit," Charles said softly. "It seems that it's you and Brother Armando who have truly put the effort into building this haven."

Erik wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he didn't. It was difficult to remember, here in the stillness and darkness of the woods, that Charles was a potential enemy. He seemed a different person entirely in the strange intimacy of this nighttime sojourn, softer around the edges. It should have grated; Erik had never had much patience for gentleness. But somehow he was finding it very nearly soothing.

"I can understand why Raven felt safe enough to reveal herself to you," Charles added, unwisely.

All of Erik's hackles immediately went back up. He stopped dead in his tracks, berating himself for a fool. It was so easy to forget that Charles's Gift was more than merely passive eavesdropping. He could use it to actively manipulate Erik's own thoughts and perceptions. Was that what this whole damn excursion had been about?

"No," Charles said firmly -- not aloud. Directly into Erik's head. _Erik, I promise you, I have not been exerting any control over your mind._

Erik took a step back away from him. "Get out of my head, Charles."

"I'm _trying_," Charles snapped, out loud this time. "But you were thinking very loudly indeed, my friend."

"We're not friends."

Charles reeled back a step of his own. It was as if Erik could physically feel the hurt rippling off him, though it was swiftly tamped down. "We could be," Charles said, recovering with admirable determination. "I'd like us to be. We're not really working at cross-purposes here, you and I."

"And what exactly _is_ your purpose here tonight, Charles?" Erik demanded. "Who are you tucking those horses away for?"

"For Raven!" Charles said, exasperation clear in his tone. "How on earth were _you_ planning to get her out of Shrewsbury?"

Erik just gaped at him. Somewhere above them, an owl screeched, and he shook his head to clear it. "You honestly expect me to believe that? With the king's favor riding on her capture?"

"Not anymore it's not," Charles said. "Although it never truly was. Anthony may bluster and bellow, but his heart's in the right place. He never felt comfortable with the thought of using a young girl in that way. But regardless, with Dirk Holme dead, his daughter holds no value as a hostage. God knows Cain Marko would never return for her."

"Then why bother with her at all? If the danger's past, she doesn't need to hide any longer."

"The king may have no use for her, but that doesn't mean others won't." Charles leaned back against a tree, rubbing at his temples. "She was in her father's confidence, and he was sworn to the Empress. There are those among the king's party who would not scruple to press her for any scrap of information she might possess." He met Erik's eyes with grim determination. "And there were plans afoot in that castle that some would clearly commit murder to keep secret."

Lord Holme. His courier, John Allerdyce. And an urgent message, intended for the Empress's ears only, that no one yet living seemed to know.

"Believe what you like," Charles went on tiredly. "I know I can't convince you with words. I just have to hope my actions bear out my good intentions. All I want of Raven is to see her safely away from this conflict."

Something in the weariness of his tone, like one who had repeated an argument a thousand times and yet continued to be disappointed by it, struck a chord. Erik knew how it felt to be constantly second-guessed and mistrusted simply for what he was. Any of the Gifted would.

And God help him, he _wanted_ to believe Charles now.

"And the second horse?" he finally asked. "Who do you mean to accompany her? You can't possibly intend to bring her to Normandy yourself."

Charles gave him a tight smile. "Hardly. She would never trust me so far, anyway."

"Who, then?"

"Someone I think you'd very much like to speak with yourself," Charles said. "So here's what I propose: you convince Raven to meet me, there at the grange, and I will bring you Alex Summers."

* * *

It was near to midnight by the time they made their way back to abbey grounds, fording the knee-deep Meole Brook to cross into Brother Henry's field of pease. Charles didn't even hesitate at the water's edge, plunging in boots, hose, and all. At Erik's arched eyebrow, he grinned, a flash of white in the moonlight.

"If you meant to drown me," he remarked, keeping his voice pitched low, "I think the Severn would be a far better bet."

Erik shrugged, turning away to hide a smile. "Just wasn't expecting a lordling to be willing to get his fancy boots wet."

"I've endured worse!"

"I can't imagine how you've survived such hardships."

Charles leaned down to splash a palmful of water up towards Erik's face. It mostly missed, but succeeded in surprising a laugh out of him.

"Quiet, now, or you'll bring the monks down upon our heads," Erik said, once they'd finished clambering their way up the embankment into the field. "Which may not trouble you once you've returned to your own manor, but _I've_ got to keep in good standing if I want to continue my tenancy with the abbey."

Charles gave him an oblique glance. "_Do_ you want to? Remain here in Shrewsbury, that is? You don't seem like you've ever stayed in one place for very long."

There was a note in his voice that Erik couldn't quite place. He took a moment to consider his answer. "I suppose I haven't," he said. "Perhaps I've had good reason to learn that nothing in life ever lasts."

Including the curious intimacy of their conversation this night, despite all its fits and starts and uncertainties. Erik paused in his steps, and Charles matched him, so that they regarded each other in the starlight for a long, silent moment. There was so much yet Erik didn't know about Charles's true motivations. He still might be the murderer of John Allerdyce, and even if not, there was certainly more he wanted from Raven than to simply wish her farewell.

And yet, and yet.

"You were right, earlier, in a way," Erik said abruptly. "Settling here in England did give me a chance to connect with my own kind. Just not in terms of my faith. _That_ community was ripped from me at too young of an age, and I can never return to it. I did try, for a time, but soon discovered that I would far rather be a stranger in a foreign land than a stranger among those who should have been my own people."

Charles reached out, but clearly thought better of it and let his hand fall back to his side. "Erik, I'm sorry."

Erik waved that off. "What's past is passed. The only community I claim for myself now is that of the Gifted. And what you need to understand about me, Charles, is that I will do anything to protect them." He met Charles's gaze and held it fiercely. "_Anything_. If anyone threatens our hard-won security, I will do everything in my power to prevent it. Even if the threat comes from one of our own."

Charles didn't so much as flinch. "Good," he said, the corners of his mouth curving into an unreadable smile. "I would expect no less of you."

They parted there, in the abbey's fields, as the Matins bells chimed for midnight and a renewed call for prayer. It was not Erik's faith, though, and he did not pray, simply returned to his own workshop, closing doors and shutters tightly so that none would see the lamp he lit within. He had one errand yet to complete before dawn.

Drawing out the steel he'd cut and set aside that afternoon, Erik swiftly began to give it shape.

* * *

The announcement came immediately following Prime early the next morning, when Remy LeBeau and his men rode up to the Abbey Foregate along with Captain Rhodes and a company of his mercenaries. Rhodes himself continued on to set up a guard post at the far end of the Foregate, to question every rider and search every cart attempting to leave Shrewsbury, with sentries fanning out along the various paths and river crossings. It fell to Remy to take possession of the abbey gatehouse himself.

"Sorry I am, Brother," Remy sighed to Armando as he dismounted. "I must ask you to bar the gates, and keep them closed to any who would wish to enter or leave. I hope you know that I would it were otherwise!"

Armando shrugged as he moved to obey. "Such is the price for a town that held out so long against a king. Plenty will grumble, but we all know the way of the world." Although privately, he did wonder. This seemed more serious than Erik had warned him of. They shouldn't need sentries just to collect a tithe!

"So long as they don't hold it against me personally," Remy grumbled, and turned to face the nervous cluster of monks already gathering out in the courtyard. Fortunately, both abbot and prior were among them, so no time needed to be spent fetching them.

Remy made his reverence to the abbot with all due courtesy, but the patina of politeness did nothing to soften the impact of his orders. "My lord abbot, I am ordered by King Anthony to require of this abbey free and orderly entry everywhere, a tithe of your stores for his Grace's necessary provision, and such serviceable horses as are not already in the use of people in his Grace's commission." Remy raised his voice to carry over the growing murmur from the collected brethren, and added, "I am also commanded to search and enquire everywhere for the daughter of the deceased traitor Dirk Holme, named Raven, who is a known Gifted shapeshifter and believed to still be in hiding here in Shrewsbury."

At that, Armando withdrew into the shadows of his gatehouse to conceal his own reaction. That they were searching for Raven was no great shock, though he'd assumed her father's death would have significantly reduced her value to the king. But that they knew her for a shapeshifter was ill news indeed. She would need to keep a very cool head under pressure to keep her disguise from slipping. Would he be able to warn her? No, he decided, best hope he wouldn't even be able to find her himself.

* * *

Raven herself was amongst the other boys who'd all emerged from the church together after Prime, still wearing Bobby's skin. At Remy LeBeau's announcement, they all began to eye one another sidelong, anxious and suspicious, and she could hear the mutterings begin: _A shapeshifter! Gifted! Why, she could be any one of us!_

The master of the novices, long-suffering Brother Paul, immediately did his best to hush any such gossip amongst his charges, herding the gaggle of schoolboys back toward the dortoir to keep them all out of the way of the sheriff's men. Raven allowed herself to be drawn along with them, her mind racing. Could she brazen it out? They wouldn't know what to look for, and she hadn't seen Charles Xavier among the sheriff's party. He alone might sniff her out, with his telepathy, but saving any other such Gifts…

But they'd be asking questions, seeking specifically for any newcomers to the abbey's grounds, and anyone they asked might point to that new boy, Bobby Drake. Could she maintain the cover if they interrogated her?

And the sight of all those soldiers beginning their search...what if Erik's warning came to pass? What if they _did_ find the saddlebag where she'd hidden it in the mill?

She let herself fall to the back of the group. Once they reached the dortoir stairs, she would simply sneak out the other way. But of course Brother Paul was bringing up the rear, ensuring that not a single one of his lambs might fall astray. How to give him the slip?

The other boys all clattered up the stairs. She lagged as much as she could, but in the end, she must follow. And then Paul reached out and gently clasped her wrist.

She stared up at him with Bobby's wide, innocent eyes.

"Go," Paul said, voice scarcely even a whisper. "The lads will all be in chaos for hours, no one would ever mark your absence but me. If you can shift into one of the soldiers, you might yet slip past."

Somehow, she managed to find her voice. "I can try. But how…?"

Brother Paul gave her a wry smile and released her. "When you've taught boys as long as I have, you'll know how to spot something amiss. Now go, girl, while you've still a chance!"

Raven nodded and shifted into Paul's own mirror image. He chuckled as she winked and made her way back out the side door.

It wasn't bad advice, to play one of Remy's own men. But that wouldn't help her reclaim her father's treasury. In the guise of Brother Paul, she could blend in with the monks now doing their best to go about their daily business despite this intrusion. And the king's men would surely loot stables, barns, and stores before making their way out toward gardens and fields.

She might yet reach the mill before they did. 

The gardens behind Henry's herbarium led into the pease field, which sloped down a fairly steep embankment that ended in the Meole Brook. The other side of the brook was all forest growth. Keeping as low to the ground as she could, she would be relatively well shielded for a time, and though the brook ran shallowly at first, it deepened as it approached the mill pond. Once the water seemed deep enough, she slipped into her own natural blue form and swam instead. She was in luck; none of the soldiers had yet come even within shouting distance of the brook, since the stables were all clustered on the far side of the abbey's grounds.

She reached the mill and pulled herself out the pond in the shadows of its water wheel, keeping a careful eye out. There was no activity nearby. And fortunately, her blue scales would dry quickly. Keeping her back to the wall, she made her way around and pushed the large door open just enough to slip inside.

All within was dark and quiet. She'd first arrived here on the night of John's death with that dratted saddlebag in much the same manner: pulling herself out of the river Severn, which forked into the other side of the mill pond; still fearing that all the king's men were hard at her heels despite her long swim. This had been the only place she could think of to hide. There was a large pile of dry sacking in one corner, in preparation for the autumn harvest, and she'd simply thrust the saddlebag deep into the middle of the heap. The sacking would not be needed for weeks yet, and should be safe enough.

Now, of course, she could not help but fret as she dug her way into the sacking in search of her own hidden treasure. Had the pile been disturbed? Did anything look different than when she'd first hidden it? She honestly couldn't tell. But the saddlebag was there, and felt just as heavy as before. She wrapped it all in one of the sacks, the only form of disguise at hand, and huddled there for a long minute to consider her next move.

There would be sentries set all along the road, at every bridge and gate. No escape by the Severn for her this time, at least not by daylight. And she could not hope that the mill itself would escape notice. They would search here soon enough, and there was no way to conceal herself within. She could stride out boldly in the guise of a soldier, but with her precious cargo, that would feel far too conspicuous. And what else was near the mill? Three of the abbey's grace houses lined the pond, but those were given over to noble guests...

All at once, she had a plan. Shifting back into Bobby -- still her most familiar disguise, and the safest for the moment -- she clutched her bundle to her chest and made her way back outside, running as quickly as she dared along the edge of the pond to the first house. No one else was out of doors so early in the morning along this quiet little stretch of ground. She rapped heavily on the door, her heart pounding.

A maidservant answered -- a middle-aged, kindly looking woman with dark hair and eyes. "What's this?"

"I need to speak with Moira MacTaggert," Raven said urgently. "Please, is she within?"

The lady herself appeared behind the servant, drawn by the commotion. "Anwen? Who is -- oh!" Moira frowned out of confusion rather than disapproval. "The boy from the herbarium. Bobby, isn't it? My goodness, what's wrong?"

"Please," was all Raven could manage, and Moira nodded briskly, ushering her within. 

"Close the door, Anwen," she said, leading Raven to a chair. "Now, then, child, what has happened? Were you sent here?"

"They're searching the abbey," Raven said in a rush. "All of it, all the grounds, and town as well."

"I know. Remy told me. Well, not in so many words, but I knew they'd be collecting tithes…" Moira trailed off at the expression on Raven's face. "But it's more than that, I take it."

If there was an easy or elegant way to explain it, Raven couldn't for the life of her come up with it. "It's me. They're hunting me. But the sheriff is courting you, he's fond of you, this is the one house he might not search thoroughly. I know it's far too much to ask, but I have nowhere else to turn…"

"You?" Moira said curiously. "Why would Remy hunt a mere child, a Benedictine novice?"

"Because I'm not," Raven told her, and shifted, shaking off Bobby Drake's skin for the final time. "My name is Raven Holme. Your brother was my father's squire. I know you support the king, but please, if ever you loved and respected your brother, will you not help his lord's orphaned daughter?"

Moira regarded her long and steadily, betraying no shock at the evidence of Raven's Gift. Slowly, her lips curved into a gentle smile. "Yes," she said. "I can and will help you. Bring your baggage and come within, you'll be safe here. You're absolutely right; Remy would never dare search my own bedchamber!"

* * *

Brother Henry missed the initial announcement completely, having gone directly from the Prime office out the side door to his own workshop and there quickly becoming absorbed in brewing a particular remedy that one of the patients in the abbey infirmary required. But the news didn't take long to reach him. It came by way of a gossipy fellow brother who was equally alarmed and excited at the prospect of a shapeshifting interloper among them.

Once Henry was able to shake him off, he took off in search for Raven himself, though he didn't know quite what to do once he'd found her. But at least then he'd know she was safe. He could vouch for "Bobby Drake", swear up and down that the boy was precisely who he claimed to be. And Remy seemed to like and trust him. Surely that would be enough?

But he couldn't find Raven anywhere. No sign of Bobby among the other boys and novices, who were all gathered together in the dortoir. No hint of her in any of her usual haunts on abbey grounds -- which, really, were just the herbarium and Armando's gatehouse. Could she have somehow slipped out before the gates were barred? Or was she still here, wearing an unfamiliar skin, as innocuous to Henry as to any of these searchers?

Anxious, frustrated, and furious with himself for not having foreseen this possibility as soon as Erik warned them yesterday, Henry was perhaps not in the best mood to encounter Charles Xavier.

They'd only met in passing, had never exchanged words apart from when Charles had accompanied Moira to look at the unidentified corpse in the castle ward. All Henry knew of the man came through Erik's recountings. But the sight of him now abruptly made all the blood boil in Henry's veins.

Charles was emerging from the abbey guest hall. The sheriff's men were still busy with stores and stables, and this corner of the courtyard was relatively quiet. Henry marched directly up to him, just barely keeping a lid on his temper, and without giving himself a chance to think better of it said, "My lord Xavier. Might I have a word?"

He hardly even heard Charles's assent before taking him firmly by the arm and pulling him across the garden to the relative privacy of the herbarium workshop.

"Brother Henry, isn't it?" Charles said, bemused but willing enough. "We haven't really had a chance to become acquainted, but--"

Henry turned and shoved Charles back against the workshop door. "Did you do this?" he snarled, holding the other man in place. "Did _you_ tell them she was a shapeshifter?"

Charles blinked up at him, mouth agape. Henry might have been several years his junior, and a monk, but he stood half a foot taller and had all the inhuman strength of his Gift at his advantage, and right then he couldn't have cared less about his vows. If Charles Xavier had betrayed Raven to the king and all his armies, Henry would crack his head open without a second thought.

"What?" Charles demanded. "What are you talking about?"

"Raven! The king's men are here, hunting her, and they _know_. Who could have told them of her Gift but you?"

"You can't be serious." Charles paled, staring intently at Henry's face. "Good God, you are. They announced it to the whole abbey?"

Henry shoved him again, though this time it was mostly to propel himself back away from the telepath. "I suppose you just read that out of my mind?"

"Yes, I did, since you won't actually tell me what's going on," Charles snapped back. "I just woke up twenty minutes ago, I hadn't heard anything!"

"Don't pretend you didn't know this was happening! Who else would have known about Raven?"

Charles slammed his hand against the door. "I don't bloody know! The last I heard, the king had called off the hunt for her entirely. He must have changed his mind -- someone must have convinced him otherwise. But it wasn't me, damn it!"

"I don't believe you," Henry said, but that first heady rush of anger was dissipating now, leaving him shaky and uncertain.

Charles rolled his eyes heavenward. "Oh, be logical, Henry. Assume the worst of me if you must. If I'd wanted to claim the girl for myself, I would have found her _myself_. You know I could have, days ago. So why on earth would I set the dogs on her now? What could I possibly gain from that?"

Henry stood his ground as best he could. "You were the only one of the king's party who knew she was a shapeshifter."

"Apparently not," Charles said with a bitter laugh. "Now if you'll excuse me, _Brother_, I need to go see if there's anything I can yet salvage out of this travesty." He sighed, rubbing at his temples, then looked Henry directly in the eye. "Your care for Raven does you credit. But I swear to you that we're both working to the same end here. If you truly wish to help her, don't stand in my way."

There was no retort Henry could think of to that. Satisfied, Charles turned and put a hand to the door, but paused there. Without looking back, he added, "And you can tell Erik the same."

Then he pulled it open and stepped out into the sunshine, and was gone.

Henry brooded a while in silence, considering and discarding a dozen different plans of action, all obviously doomed to failure. In the end, there was nothing he could do but resign himself to his own helplessness. Whether the king's men found Raven or not was now completely out of his hands. He could only brace himself for whatever followed.

Perhaps an hour or so passed before there came a knock on the workshop door, and Henry glanced up to see Remy LeBeau there, with a rueful smile on his handsome face. "Ah, there you are, Brother," Remy said. "Well, I suppose I'd better search this hut of yours, while I'm here!"

Henry looked around the small workshop, with its jars and vats and herbs, and no space whatsoever to successfully conceal an actual human being, and then just stared back at Remy incredulously.

Remy laughed, leaning comfortably against the center table. "Of course I don't expect to find anything. But it gives us the opportunity for a quick chat, no?"

"Oh -- about John Allerdyce, you mean?" The murdered man had been the furthest thing from Henry's mind this morning. He frowned down at his own hands. "I've uncovered nothing since we spoke yesterday. Honestly, I'm not sure where to turn next. Unless you've learned anything yourself?"

"Yes," Remy said, more soberly now. "That is indeed what we need to speak of. Brother Henry, I very much admire the pains you have taken for this poor corpse. Surely Allerdyce himself would be grateful to you for giving him the dignity of a name, and a proper burial. But this investigation…" He sighed. "I must regretfully request that you desist in your efforts, at least for the time being."

"Desist…?" Henry gaped at him. "King Anthony himself gave me permission to pursue it!"

Remy nodded with genuine sympathy. "I know. But that was when we all thought this the work of a mere footpad, a lawless stranger."

Henry sat up straighter, leaning forward. "And you've found evidence that it was not?"

"Brother...you are a man of God, and the pursuit of justice is the highest of callings. I have nothing but respect for you." Wryly, he added, "In fact, I could use a sergeant of your investigative abilities, if I might tempt you away from the Church…? No, of course not. But this case has unexpectedly placed me in a most delicate position." Remy shifted uncomfortably, plucking at the fingertips of his gloves as he glanced toward the shutters, as though to reassure himself that none might overhear. "As newly appointed sheriff of this shire, my position is yet tenuous. I do wish to carry out the crown's justice on behalf of John Allerdyce. But if I continue pulling at that particular thread…" He sighed and shook his head. "Let's just say that I hope to serve Shrewsbury for many years to come, and if the price of that peace is that Allerdyce's murder goes unavenged...well, I don't like it. I heartily wish it were otherwise. But I cannot afford to pursue this any further."

"You did follow up on our conversation yesterday," Henry realized aloud, eyes narrowing. "You were going to find out if any of the hanged men gave information regarding Allerdyce before they were executed, and now you have a suspect--"

"There are some men," Remy said quietly, "whom even I cannot accuse. And nor should you, Brother." He stepped around the table to clap Henry on the shoulder companionably. "I like you, Henry. We should become good friends, I think. So take a word of advice from one who only means you well: let the matter of Allerdyce go."

He moved briskly toward the workshop door. Before he could leave, Henry couldn't help but ask: "And what about this girl you're supposed to be looking for? Have you found her yet?"

Remy shrugged. "No, and just between you and me, I don't expect to. Hunting a shapeshifter -- what folly! But I have my orders." With one last significant glance back, he left Henry alone again with his thoughts in the herbarium.

_I have my orders,_ Remy had said, and _there are some men whom even I cannot accuse._ And back at the castle, the day before: _Captain Stane questioned a number of Marko's men himself._

_Stane thinks your pursuit of justice is a colossal waste of time… But I've served under him for some years now, I know how to manage the old wolf._

Henry stared blankly into the shadows of his hut, and didn't stir again for some time.

* * *

Erik awoke very late, having returned to his own bed just before dawn, and rose to find the Foregate crawling with those blasted mercenary soldiers and all of his neighbors buzzing with frantic gossip. So the hunt was back on for Raven after all! Any goodwill he might have harbored for Charles after their evening sojourn evaporated instantly, and Erik's mood blackened. It didn't help that he had to allow soldiers entry into his own house and workshop shortly thereafter, and they spent far too long poking through all his metalworking equipment. As though he were somehow concealing the girl under a heap of scrap metal!

That did make him reconsider Charles's part in all this madness, though. He would have conducted the search with far more subtlety, and likely been swift and effective about it. If Raven hadn't yet been caught, then Erik began to very much doubt Charles could be involved in these orders at all.

It took him the better part of an hour to restore everything to its proper place once the soldiers had moved on, and he was still sorting through some of his works in progress when Moira MacTaggert, of all people, appeared in his doorway. That was another thing he hadn't yet had the time and peace to consider -- that damned brooch of hers!

"Mistress MacTaggert," he gritted out. "I'm afraid this isn't the best time--"

"To discuss that commission I gave you, yes," Moira said, a little too loudly. "I realize there's no way you could possibly have it done so soon! Given the circumstances, of course I'd be happy to come to an agreement…"

She might as well have been babbling in Welsh, for all he understood her meaning. But the inane flow of words brought her well inside, and bending close as though to look over his workbench, she dropped her tone and said instead, "Raven is in my house, and safe."

Erik stilled, and lowered his own voice to match. "What?"

"She came to me. Remy has already been and gone, all unwitting, you needn't fear for her now."

"Ah." Erik's mind raced through the possibilities. "Did she carry any...baggage?" It would be ironic indeed if he had been up all night for naught after all!

"That bundle of hers? Yes, it's hidden with her, whatever it might contain. Now, I assume you have a plan to get her away from here?"

It must be tonight, then, whether Charles willed it or no. The horses were at the grange and could be made ready at a word. If Alex Summers remained hostage upon Raven's escape, so be it. That would have to be a problem for another day.

"Tonight," Erik told Moira. "I'll come for her as soon as it's full dark."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raven makes her own choices.

Late that afternoon, Erik attended the Vespers office at the abbey church.

It was not the first time he'd sat through a Christian service, though it had been some years since he'd last done so. Perhaps it ought to have bothered him, but he had lived among many different faiths in his life, and saw no harm in paying respect to another person's God. He sat silent in a dark corner of the cloister and simply let the Latin words wash over him. It was lovely in its own way, but he still wouldn't be here if not for the urgency of his need.

This was the best way to make contact with his friends among the brethren. The abbey gates may yet have been barred, but the parish door of the church opened directly out to the Foregate, and none would be prevented from attending services. The king's men still respected the Church that much, at least.

Brother Armando spotted him among the laity and gave him a wink. Henry didn't seem to be paying attention to much of anything, least of all the service, just staring vaguely in the direction of the abbot with a miserable expression on his face. Probably fretting over Raven, Erik assumed. Well, he'd cheer up once Erik could put a word in his ear.

When the service finally ended, the monks all rose to file out to the refectory for their supper. Erik slipped out the side door and made his way to the herbarium instead of following the rest of the laymen back out to the Foregate. No one stopped him. He was known and accepted by the locals, and the handful of the sheriff's sentries still posted at the abbey would be occupied with those attempting to exit by the gates, not those who chose to remain within the pale.

He was in the herbarium workshop just long enough to light the lamps when Armando and Henry arrived to join him.

"What, missing supper?" Erik asked.

Armando grinned and tossed him a roll of bread and an apple. "We'll manage somehow. And I'm relieved of my usual duty at the gatehouse so long as the king's men stand guard, so for once I can join you."

"Have you heard any news?" Henry asked anxiously, clearly too preoccupied to care about food. "Have they found Raven?"

"No, but I have," Erik said. "Or at least I know where she is. Moira MacTaggert is hiding her in her own bedchamber."

At that, Armando laughed outright. "Moira! Wonderful. I knew the woman had some steel in her spine."

"Are you mad?" Henry said incredulously. "That's the worst place Raven could be! Isn't Remy LeBeau courting her? He goes round to that house every day!"

"That's why it's brilliant," Armando assured him. "He'd never dare search the lady's bedchamber -- not if he yet holds out any hope of being invited there himself!"

Henry flushed beet red at that, which only increased Armando and Erik's amusement. He waited until they were done laughing, then put in peevishly, "But that still doesn't solve the problem. She can't hide there forever."

"As to that," Erik said, "I do believe my lord Xavier has fortuitously provided the solution. Two fine horses, eager for exercise, safely secured at Janos and Angel's grange. All we need do is get the girl to them. And as Charles and I discovered last night, that's easily accomplished with none of the king's men the wiser for it. From mill to brook to forest is all abbey ground, and the search has long since moved on from here. As long as we stick to the forest trails, and don't go near the roads or the river Severn, we should get her clear easily enough."

"And what if Xavier betrays us?" Henry asked. "For all his protestations, he's still the only man of the king's faction who could have known about Raven's Gift."

Erik looked at him sharply. "Protestations? You've spoken with him yourself today?"

"I...well, sort of." Henry shifted from one foot to the other, rubbing the back of his neck. "I may have, um, confronted him about it. This morning."

There was clearly more to it than that. "And what did he say?"

"That he hadn't known about the orders beforehand. And that if I truly wanted to help Raven, I shouldn't stand in his way." A good deal of bitterness still lingered in Henry's eyes when they met Erik's. "He said to tell you the same."

Armando shook his head. "What does that even mean?"

They hadn't yet learned of the agreement Erik had made on Raven's behalf. It had made a strange sort of sense at the time, the logical next move in the elaborate game he and Charles had been playing together. Now, in the light of day, with Henry's suspicions writ large across his face, Erik began to doubt the wisdom of it.

"Charles made me an offer last night," he told them reluctantly. "He would assist with Raven's escape in exchange for the opportunity to speak with her himself. And he can lead us to Alex Summers."

"Alex! He's alive, then, praise be to God." Armando tapped his finger against his chin thoughtfully. "So Charles knows where the lad's been hiding."

"If Charles didn't abduct him himself," Henry said darkly. "After Alex witnessed him murder John Allerdyce."

Armando studied his fellow monk for a moment. "You're awfully quick to accuse Charles Xavier of all manner of evils. And here I thought he was Erik's pet suspect, not yours."

All at once, Henry deflated, sinking down onto the bench beside Armando. "I know, but I can't help it. Whether he had anything to do with Allerdyce's death or no, he's unquestionably the biggest threat to Raven right now, and I just…" He shook his head helplessly. "And even if we do sneak her out from under his nose, then what? Raven told us herself that she doesn't know the way through Wales, that's why she was trying to tag along with Allerdyce in the first place. You expect her to make the journey alone?"

Erik hesitated at that. If they followed Charles's original proposal, Alex Summers would be there to accompany her. But Henry was right, they were taking a hell of a risk trusting the man at all. No matter what precautions Erik had put in place.

"I'll go with her myself, if need be," he finally said. "I have contacts on the Welsh side of the border, they'd likely grant us safe passage to the coast, and from there I can finagle passage aboard any vessel bound for France."

The two monks regarded him in some surprise. "That's quite a journey you'd be undertaking," Armando remarked.

"No worse than any other roads we've taken together, you and I," Erik shrugged. The more he thought on it, the more fitting it seemed. "Perhaps I'll even come face to face with Emma Frost, after all this time, and see for myself what the Empress is made of."

"Diamond, or so I'm told," Armando said drily. "You'd really leave behind the life you've built here, all for one Gifted girl?"

Erik leaned back on his bench, closing his eyes and breathing in the familiar, calming scents of all of Henry's dried herbs. "For any of our kind," he said simply. "Yes."

_You don't seem like you've ever stayed in one place for very long,_ Charles had remarked, only last night, and what Erik had told him was true: nothing in his life had ever lasted. Shrewsbury had been a welcome respite, but perhaps this conflict and Raven's plight were omens of change. Perhaps it was time to move on while he still could.

Still, he didn't relish the notion as he once might have.

Henry abruptly got to his feet. "I have some things to take care of before Compline," he muttered. "I'll see you later tonight."

Erik watched him go, bemused, then looked to Armando for explanation. Armando shook his head. "Poor lad," he sighed, "surrounded only by other boys his whole life, only to be felled by the first true smile he has from a pretty girl! He's jealous, Erik. I imagine he wishes he could play the white knight himself."

"That's absurd," Erik informed him. "I have no such interest in Raven."

Armando gave him a wry smile. "Yes," he said. "I know. But Henry's still the innocent in such matters. Ah, well, we've all loved and lost at some point. He'll be the stronger for it eventually." He sighed, picking apart the roll in his hands, then glanced at Erik sidelong. "Did you ever resent it, my taking the cowl?"

The seeming change of subject caught Erik by surprise. It had been a long time since he'd considered the matter. "I admit it took me aback, at first. Not that I ever doubted your faith. But the rest of it…" Erik gestured inarticulately.

"The obedience to the Rule?" Armando lifted an eyebrow. "The enforced chastity?"

"We traveled together three years, and you managed to find a companion in nearly every stop along the road," Erik pointed out. "Not to mention that sailor on the ship to Marseilles. You must understand why it would come as a surprise."

"Ah, Claude," Armando sighed in fond reminiscence. "He was excellent company indeed."

"You remember their _names_?"

"Not all of them, but Claude was definitely worth remembering." Armando shook his head, then refocused on Erik. "But that's not why I asked. You had the occasional companion of your own -- few and far between, assuredly, but enough that I knew you were similarly inclined. I suppose for a while, I thought perhaps...well, I did wonder what would come after we dealt with Shaw. Assuming there _was_ an after."

"I never thought there would be," Erik admitted quietly. "So I never let myself wonder at all. No, Armando, I've never resented your vows. I was glad of your friendship then, and still am. That's enough."

"Good," Armando said. He smiled, his eyes alight with mischief. "Truth be told, we wouldn't have been well suited. God knows I came near enough to killing you a time or two as it was!"

"Well, you may yet have the opportunity, if you accompany us tonight," Erik drawled. "Actually, now you mention it, I'm a little concerned that Brother Henry will make his own attempt, if he's so misread my friendship for Raven."

Armando laughed. "I suppose I'll _have_ to join you, then. Won't be the first time I've served as a human shield!" He grew serious, then, adding, "I'll go with you as far as the grange, but you know I can stray no further."

"Of course. And it may not even come to that," Erik said. "If Charles is to be trusted -- well, I suppose that is the question. He may not even realize we're moving tonight."

"Oh, something tells me he'll figure it out." Armando studied Erik from across the table. "You do trust him, though."

Something in Erik's stomach twisted in a way he'd rather ignore. It was Armando's fault, anyway, for leading their conversation in such directions. "No," he said, a little too harshly. "I don't."

Armando's eyes met his with gentle sympathy. "But you'd like to."

Erik turned away, stretching out across the bench. "I'll tell you what I'd like. I'd like to get a damn nap in while I can. I didn't get near enough sleep this morning, and it's another long night ahead of us now, no matter what road it takes."

After a long, considering moment, Armando sighed. "Go ahead," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll come fetch you after Compline."

But after he was gone, Erik simply lay still in the quiet of the herbarium, watching the shadows deepen, and couldn't sleep a wink.

* * *

"It's well past sunset," Raven fretted, pacing the narrow confines of Moira's bedchamber. "Why isn't he here yet?"

Moira was perched on the edge of the bedspread, watching her calmly. She really did flap about like the bird she was named for. "Do you not trust Erik?"

"Of course I do," Raven said at once. "It's just that there are so many things that could have gone wrong!"

"He may simply be waiting until he's sure it will be safe to fetch you," Moira said patiently. "Compline has scarce ended, there may still be too many folk abroad. If you trust him, give him time!"

Raven huffed and plopped down next to her. "You keep speaking of trust. Do _you_ not trust him?"

Moira met her eyes levelly. "He was sincere in his desire to see you safe, and that I do trust. And you know him far better than I."

"I've only known him a week," Raven admitted. "But he was the first to figure out who I really was. If he'd intended to betray me, he would have done so already. And he's taken risk upon himself to help me and my friends, even though he's not of the Empress's party himself."

"He's not?"

"In fairness, he's not even English. But no, he holds for neither side." Raven studied her curiously. "Why would you think otherwise?"

Moira hesitated, then said, "I suppose that when you asked me to reach out to him on your behalf, I assumed he must have been your father's man. But you only met him after you went into hiding?"

"He's a good friend to Brother Henry," Raven explained. "And Brother Armando, the porter."

"And with two men of God to vouch for him, who am I to doubt?" Moira traced her fingers along the brocaded coverlet. "You never saw him in the castle, perhaps? I should think a metalworker of his Gift would be in high demand."

Raven shook her head firmly. "No. Both my father and Lord Marko had their own preferred smiths, and Erik says he's long since lost the taste for war. He rarely forges swords or the like. They would not have called upon him. But why ask such questions?"

Moira regarded her a long moment, considering how much to confide in this clever, impulsive girl. But Raven had troubles enough of her own to concern her now. She didn't need Moira to add to that burden.

"You are young," is what she settled on, though gently enough to remove any sting from the words. "You've been through a great deal in the past weeks, and have yet a long road to travel. I just want to be sure you're choosing your allies carefully." She paused, then added, "And I know what it is to be a woman alone in a man's world."

Raven pulled a face, but she did seem to be considering Moira's words. "I'm doing the best I can," she said. "My options for accomplices have been fairly limited, you understand! And beggars can't be choosers. But Erik is a more powerful ally than you seem to realize." She bit her lip, staring down at the floor, then looked back up into Moira's face. "And you should take care yourself. I've seen you at church with Charles Xavier, you seemed friendly with him. But he's not all he appears to be. Just please, be cautious in his company."

"If you're referring to the fact that you were once betrothed," Moira said, "I do know of it. Although I don't think either of you intend to keep that promise! And if you're referring to his telepathy -- yes, I know of that, too. He told me himself."

"Oh." Raven fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. "I suppose he must be quite fond of you."

"We're friends," Moira said with finality. "Nothing more."

Raven offered her a shy smile. "Remy LeBeau is more to your taste, then, after all?"

"I'm starting to become concerned about what goes on in this abbey," Moira said drily. "Do the monks have nothing better to occupy their time than in gossip about their guests?"

"That's not an answer!"

"It's all the answer you're getting."

And that's when Erik Lehnsherr arrived to fetch the fugitive girl away.

Anwen had taken a shine to Raven, and quickly bundled her away into the kitchen to supply her as much by way of provisions as she could reasonably carry, which left Moira and Erik alone in the front room for a minute or two. Erik seemed as restless as Raven had been, prowling the edges of the room, while Moira regarded him sedately from a chair. 

He stopped in front of her. "Thank you," he said gruffly. "You put yourself at great risk, hiding her. I appreciate the efforts you've taken on her behalf."

Moira lifted an eyebrow. "Not so great a danger to me! All I had to do was shut my bedroom door."

"The king would not have looked kindly on your sheltering his enemy."

"If King Anthony considers that child an enemy, he deserves to have her as one," Moira said. "I certainly don't. She's an orphaned girl in need, beset by those who would punish her for her father's crimes. Sheltering her for a few hours is the least I could do." She met and held his gaze fiercely. "But if Raven's trust in _you_ is misplaced, Master Lehnsherr, you may well make an enemy of _me_."

Raven and Anwen burst back into the main room before he could respond, and Moira busied herself with embracing the girl and wishing her well. But she caught Erik's eyes again at the door, and he inclined his head to her with grudging respect, a curious smile playing at the edges of his lips.

* * *

Erik offered to carry the saddlebag to the grange, since the heavy metal within would be no burden to his Gift, and Raven gladly accepted. She adopted the guise of Brother Henry as they made their way from the mill pond out into the forest, in case they were spotted. Erik and Henry were known to be friends, and it seemed the least conspicuous option so long as they were still on abbey grounds. Once well into the trees, though, she shifted back into her usual female form. She decided upon men's trousers instead of a skirt, the better for a trek through the woods, and darkened her hair to a deep brown from its preferred blonde so as not to stand out in the darkness. Erik nodded approvingly when he noticed.

"A natural conspirator," he remarked. "You were wasting your talents as a mere nobleman's daughter. I do hope this Empress of yours recognizes your value."

"She must," Raven said firmly, "being Gifted herself."

Erik just snorted at that, and Raven thought of Moira's warning about choosing allies wisely, and her surprise that Erik was not of the Empress's party himself. After a few moments' consideration, she asked, "Erik -- why _don't_ you support Emma Frost? I don't mean fighting on her behalf," she went on hastily. "You're not a soldier any longer, and not even English, there's no reason for you to take up arms yourself. But it seems like you don't like the thought of her on the throne at all. Why not? Your allegiance seems to fall with the Gifted, of any kind, so why not the Empress?"

He remained silent for some minutes, and she wondered if he was going to ignore the question entirely. But finally he answered, "Because I have yet to see any evidence that the Empress cares for any cause but her own enrichment. And because she once served as patroness and sponsor of the single most unambiguously evil man I have ever known."

Something in his tone prevented her from inquiring further about this mysterious villain, or the nature of his evil. But she couldn't help but say: "Any nobleman of Emma or Anthony's rank will have thousands of adherents. Surely you cannot hold her accountable for the actions of any one vassal, no matter how abhorrent?"

"She was more than merely his liege lord," Erik said flatly. "No, I don't hold her responsible for every vile act Shaw committed, but she knew full well what he was and still chose to lend him her support and influence. And that I cannot condone or forgive."

"Then why are you helping me at all?" Raven demanded. "You know I intend to go to her court."

Erik stopped walking, turning to look her full in the face. "Because you have the right to make your own choices," he said. "And you should never let anyone take that away from you."

Raven's skin felt very warm with that intent gaze upon her. She couldn't find her voice, so only nodded instead. Satisfied, Erik turned and continued leading them onward through the trees.

Some minutes later, he stopped them again, seemingly at some particular spot he recognized. "Hold here a minute," he said, peering at the forest around them. He let the saddlebag float gently to the ground at his feet. "This is where I'd arranged to meet our friends."

It wasn't long before the two Benedictines joined them, their dark habits blending with the shadows. "Raven!" Henry said, careful to keep his voice low. "I'm so glad to see you safe. You're well? None have harmed you?"

His obvious concern warmed her, and she smiled and clasped his arm in greeting. "Yes, I'm fine. And grateful to be able to bid you farewell in person!"

Henry's face fell a bit at that, but he rallied quickly. "Of course I had to see you safely off!"

"And it's good to finally see Raven Holme for myself," Armando added with a grin, elbowing Henry companionably. "No wonder he's so taken with you! Not that you weren't very handsome as Bobby, as well."

Raven couldn't help but laugh, though Henry just scowled at him.

"If that's settled," Erik broke in. "We've still a mile to walk to the grange, and Raven will want to put as much distance as possible between herself and Shrewsbury before sunrise. Shall we continue on? All quiet up ahead?"

"No sign of the king's men," Armando confirmed, as their party began walking onward between the trees. "They're sticking to the roads, not the open forest."

"But Charles Xavier rode out from the abbey alone earlier this afternoon," Henry said. "The guard at the gatepost confirmed it. And had not yet returned when we set out after Compline."

Raven's heart skipped a beat or two. "Charles? Do you think he might yet follow me?" The men exchanged glances over her head, and she nearly stamped her foot in frustration. "Come now, what is it you're not telling me?"

"He might be waiting for us at the grange," Armando said gently. "He deliberately set those horses aside for you, and expressed a desire to speak with you himself in exchange for turning a blind eye to your escape. But he wasn't expecting the hunt for you today, nor that you would be moving tonight. So we can't be sure."

Her first instinct was to bolt, just break off running and not stop until they were all well behind her. But Erik still had the saddlebag, and she would lose her way too easily in these woods. And these men had shown her nothing but kindness and concern. Could she trust them, even now?

Moira was right. A woman alone in a man's world had to be cautious indeed!

"Charles Xavier will not harm you, Raven," Erik said firmly. "And you will be surrounded by allies if he should think to try. That's why we're all three accompanying you tonight. Plus Janos and Angel at the grange -- their allegiance is to me, not Charles. They would fight for you if it came to that."

Armando touched her shoulder lightly, taking care not to startle her further. "I can shield you from any physical attack, if you'll permit me to remain close. It's what my Gift is best used for. And while I can't prevent him from using his telepathy, any mental attacks he might try will fail against me, at least. I sincerely don't expect it to come to a fight, but if the worst should happen, I swear I'll do everything in my power to protect you."

"And that's quite a lot," Erik added. "I've seen him against far more dangerous foes than a telepath."

Raven breathed deeply, trying to quell her lingering panic. She levelled a glare at Erik. "You said I had the right to make my own choices."

"And you do," Erik said. "I would have preferred to have this discussion with you in advance, so that you could have considered it in quiet and safety, but circumstances robbed us of that time. But you needn't go any further than this. It will be a more difficult road to travel on foot, and more dangerous, but if that's your choice, I'll go with you. The Welsh border is another twelve miles or so to the west of here, we could make good headway by dawn even without horses. Only say the word."

How much did she truly fear Charles Xavier? To what lengths would she go simply to avoid ever coming face to face with him again?

"No," Raven decided with a sigh. "Let's take our chance fetching the horses. It's too risky otherwise. If Charles is waiting, I suppose I'll just have to deal with him myself."

* * *

The trees thinned as they neared the grange, letting in the moon and starlight. The night was clear and almost pleasant, less muggy than the day had been. A good night for a long ride, Raven thought. A light burned at the open window of the little house.

"Here," Erik said quietly, giving her the precious bundle that held her father's treasury. "I may need my hands free, and I imagine you'll want to keep it close."

She nodded and accepted it, the weight of it in her arms as familiar as a lover.

But though they all held their breath as they emerged out into the open field, no attack came. All was quiet and still. The door of the house opened as they approached it, and a dark-haired woman emerged with a smile. She had wings, Raven noticed in awe. Like a dragonfly.

"We thought you might return tonight -- word from the town has all in upheaval," the woman said to Erik. "Janos is in the stable, readying the horses. And your friend is already here waiting for you."

Raven's breath caught in her throat.

"Did he come alone?" Erik asked in a low tone.

"No, there's a younger fellow with him. The smith's son from Shrewsbury, I think?"

"Alex!" Raven cried, and immediately pushed past her monastic protectors to run to the door herself. Even knowing that Charles would be there as well, she could wait no longer.

The house was as simple and neat within as it appeared from the outside. The front door opened into the main room, which combined kitchen with living space and just managed to fit in a table and a couple of benches. Charles and Alex both stood as Raven burst in, and she resolutely ignored the former in favor of throwing her arms around Alex, only just barely remembering to drop the saddlebag first.

"Where have you been?" she scolded, pulling back enough to clout him firmly on the shoulder. Alex winced. "I thought you'd gotten yourself killed, like John!"

"Ow, leave off!" Alex swatted her hands away, scowling. "I'm fine -- or will be, if you stop hitting me!"

"What have you been doing all this time?"

"Fat lot of nothing," he muttered, dropping back down onto the bench. "Hiding like a coward."

"There's a difference between cowardice and prudence," Charles remarked. "Don't hold yourself to blame, Alex, you made the only choice available to you at the time." He had stepped back from their little reunion, putting the table between himself and Raven, and now met her eyes with a faint smile. "Hello, Raven."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Charles."

"I'm glad to see you safe and well."

"No thanks to you!"

He sighed, leaning back against the wall and showing her his open hands. "I came unarmed and alone, save for Alex. And you're surrounded by friends here, while I have none." When she looked up, she did see that Erik, Henry, and Armando had all joined them within, along with the winged woman. "What more do you need for me to demonstrate that I mean you no harm tonight?"

"Raven," Alex said quietly. "I thought I'd be the last person to ever say this, but...hear him out."

Raven hesitated, then sat down beside him on the bench, tucking her precious bundle under the table for the moment. "Are you here of your own free will, Alex? Or did he…" She wiggled her fingers by her head to demonstrate.

Alex rolled his eyes. "Uh, if he _was_ mind-controlling me, how would I even answer that? Never mind. No, he hasn't messed with my head, as far as I know."

"Not like you'd even be able to tell the difference," she retorted. "But seriously, Alex, what happened to you?"

He glanced up at Charles, then at the others. "It's fine, Alex," Armando said. "We're just glad you're all right. But Henry and Erik here have been hunting for John Allerdyce's murderer, so if you saw anything that night…?"

"I didn't see his face," Alex said at once. "Wish I had. But it was dark in the hut, and the only light was the candle behind him, I could only see his shape. And John's body on the ground right in front of me."

"What happened?" Erik asked, more gently than Raven would have expected from him.

Alex squeezed his eyes shut a moment. When he opened them again, he stared down at his own hands on the table. "I saw the body -- I knew it was John, I just _knew_, even though it was so dark -- and someone else bending over him. But he must've gotten a look at me, and he moved _fast_. He hit something against the ground -- maybe a stick, or a staff? I don't know. Whatever it was, it made the earth under my feet shake, knocked me off balance. I got a blast out, but by then I was just trying to get Raven out of there. Then I was scared that the killer would follow her, so I ran in the opposite direction to try to draw him off. It worked -- I could hear him crashing around behind me -- but I know those woods well, I was able to lose him after a while. Didn't want to chance the roads, there were too many soldiers abroad patrolling, so I laid up in the bushes for the rest of the night.

"And then I got to thinking -- it had to be one of the king's men who killed John, right? I mean, who else would have cared to stop him? And if he was after Holme's treasury, he didn't get it, unless he'd caught Raven after all. So he'd still be looking. And he'd seen my face, or at least my Gift, since I'd been fool enough to blast at him. Anyone in Shrewsbury could have pointed him right at me.

"So I didn't want to risk going home -- that would lead him to my parents, and what might the king do to them, if he thought they knew Holme's secrets? Instead I made my way around to the Long Forest, and down to Thornbury. An old friend of my father lives in that village, he used to be one of Lord Holme's retainers, I knew I could trust him. So I've been hiding there ever since, waiting for the king's forces to move on from Shrewsbury. Except then Charles turned up."

Raven jerked her head to look up at Charles, who still kept aloof from the rest of the group. "Quite by accident, I assure you," Charles said drily. "I was following up on another matter entirely, and had some questions for that friend of his, since he had once been a confidante of Holme's, and I remembered him from my own association with the family. That turned out to be a dead end, except for the coincidence of finding Alex there! He would've blasted me and made a run for it, I imagine, if I hadn't convinced him otherwise. But I told him that you were back at the abbey, and as safe as possible for the moment. And that's when I realized that the murder of this Allerdyce and my own business in Shrewsbury might well be related."

"And what business would that be?" Raven demanded. "What do you _want_ from me, Charles? Why did you insist upon meeting me?"

"I'd like to propose an exchange of information," Charles said quietly. He looked past Raven, appealing to the monks and Erik as well. "Of benefit to us all."

Raven scoffed at that. "What could you possibly know that would be worth it?"

"If my hunch is correct?" Charles smiled wryly. "The message that John Allerdyce was to carry to his Empress."

That took Raven aback. She hesitated, glancing to her friends behind her. Armando remained calm and expressionless, and Henry put a hand on her shoulder as though to steady her. Erik was staring so intently at Charles that it seemed he was trying to read _Charles's_ mind.

Henry was the first to break the tense silence. "Why would you give her that information? Aren't you sworn to King Anthony yourself? Why give the Empress a message that would only hurt your cause?"

"_If_ I'm right," Charles said, "then it poses equal threat to both King and Empress. But I won't know for sure without Raven." He took a seat opposite her at the table, meeting her eyes steadily. "I believe you have the missing piece to this particular puzzle."

Raven frowned, uncertain how far to trust her onetime fiance. "If it's that important to you, can't you just pull it out of my head?"

"I could," he told her seriously. "But I won't. I'd rather do this out in the open, where everyone can hear and judge for themselves."

Henry squeezed her shoulder in wordless support. Slowly, Raven nodded.

"But best be quick about it," Erik remarked at her back. "She does still need to reach the Welsh border before sunrise."

Charles flashed him a sardonic look, something like a smile quirking at the edge of his mouth, then returned to Raven. "All right. On the day the town fell, the king asked me to investigate a strange device his men had found down in the dungeons. You lived in that castle for a time -- do you know of what I speak? Did your father ever mention what was down there?"

"In the dungeons? They were hardly in use during the siege." Raven considered it. Not an area of the castle she'd been familiar with, and besides, that was where Marko and his henchman -- oh! "Do you mean Trask's workshop?" She curled up her lip in disgust. "No, none were permitted there."

Charles's gaze on her intensified abruptly. "Trask? Bolivar Trask? He was there in Shrewsbury?"

"Yes, for a time," she said, bemused. What could the name possibly mean to him? "He was Cain Marko's man, I think he'd been the smith at his manor. But all this was a month ago or more -- he left before the siege began, rabbited off as soon as we got word that Anthony's forces were marching on Shrewsbury. Marko called him twelve kinds of coward for it, but still he left. What does it matter? What has Trask to do with anything now?"

"The missing piece," Charles breathed. "Because Bolivar Trask was never Marko's man. He's a sworn allegiant of the Earl of Chester."

"Your cousin?" Raven shrugged. "Well, what difference does that make? Chester, Marko, they're both still sworn for the Empress. The Earl is her strongest ally in the north."

"It matters because the Earl of Chester is another telepath -- a secret he keeps very close indeed. And he cares for no cause but his own." Charles leaned back, face grim. "That was the message Allerdyce carried, that he and your father died for: Nathaniel Essex of Chester will betray the Empress. He wants the crown for himself."

The silence following _that_ announcement was very loud indeed.

Finally, Armando sighed. "Wonderful. And I thought two contenders for the throne was bad enough already. What does a three-way civil war even look like?"

"Chaos," Erik said grimly. "It'll devolve into an all-out melee. Look to the Holy Land, if you want a model. The repercussions of that damnable Crusade are still ripping it to shreds." He crossed his arms and studied Charles with narrowed eyes. "I don't suppose the two telepaths will just...cancel each other out?"

Charles shook his head. "I know we must all seem cut from the same cloth, but please believe me when I tell you that Nathaniel is _far_ worse than Emma. She uses her Gift to spy on her own courtiers, and to protect her position -- that is to say, defensively. Nathaniel Essex will use it proactively and aggressively, and unfortunately, his powers are far stronger than hers."

"Stronger than _yours_?" Erik asked, with a curious glint in his eye.

"Not yet," Charles retorted. "But with Trask's inventions, he might well become so." His attention returned to Raven. "Which is why I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to open up that parcel of yours now. There's something within that cannot fall into any other telepath's hands -- not even the Empress's."

"What?" Raven grabbed the saddlebag from where it rested at her feet and hugged it close. "No! I most certainly will not!"

Charles looked almost apologetic, but held firm. "You can keep whatever other treasures are within, I don't care for coin or jewelry or any other such pretty trash. Let Emma line her coffers with it, it makes no difference to me. But I must have this so-called crown that Trask forged. It may be of vital importance."

At Raven's shoulder, Henry almost seemed to growl. "You can't force her to give you anything."

Charles ignored him completely, keeping his focus entirely on Raven. _I can,_ he said, speaking directly into her mind with grim certainty. _I can make you turn it over and then erase its very existence from the minds of all here. You know I have that power, Raven. But I hope you know I would never use it._

"A trade of information, as I said before," was what he said aloud. "That's what this crown is: information I sorely need in order to prevent disaster. And I've already given you something of far greater value to your liege lady: the warning of betrayal. Not to mention horses to carry you to Normandy, and a friend to accompany you."

He nodded at Alex, who had sat silent throughout all. Such deliberations were yet beyond him, Raven thought ruefully, but this was the longest she'd ever known him able to simply listen and remain still. Well, she and he both were growing up very quickly in this war.

And how hard was she truly willing to fight for a bauble, when she had a mission of far greater import now to see through?

She slowly unwrapped the saddlebag from its concealing swathe of sacking, and for the very first time, unbuckled the many fastenings that held it secure. Within were tightly packed several more bags of various sizes, which clinked faintly when she loosened them from their hold. Several had been nestled within a smooth metal dome, which she then carefully withdrew.

If asked to picture this _crown_, Raven supposed she would have thought of a crown in truth, perhaps one of the more regal sort, lined with velvet and encrusted with precious gems. But this looked more like a soldier's helmet, steel so smooth it seemed no hammer could have touched it, and outlined with what felt like iron.

"That's...ugly," Alex remarked, staring at it. "I don't think the Empress would have been terribly impressed to receive it."

Raven snorted, feeling lightheaded with surprise. It really was a ridiculous thing. Yet somehow of great importance to a telepath.

Charles had kept his gaze focused on her the whole time she unpacked it, utterly unconcerned with the rest of the saddlebag's contents, as he'd promised. Even when she handed the helm over to him, he just glanced down at it for a moment, nodded, and looked back to her. "Thank you, Raven," he said softly. "I truly am sorry to have asked it of you."

Strangely enough, she found it hard to care anymore. Let Charles have it. It would make him look very foolish indeed, should he try it on!

She had more important matters to concern her now.

Raven swiftly repacked the saddlebag, filling in the gap left by the helmet. It felt a bit lighter now, but not all that different, otherwise. She tucked it under her arm and stood. "Well, then," she said. "I suppose someone had best point me in the direction of Wales."

* * *

Janos led out the two horses, dark brown and dappled gray -- well suited for riding by darkness, Erik thought again, with an inward smile. They tossed their heads as though eager to be off, nostrils flaring.

Alex clasped Armando's arm, then Erik's, before mounting. "You know your way?" Erik asked, already knowing the answer.

"To the border, yes, and a bit beyond," Alex confirmed. "My mother has kin in Pool, they'll see us on through Powys."

Erik nodded. Kinship was held sacred in Wales; Katherine's folk would likely have a whole extended network of familial ties and clan loyalties that would help Alex and Raven all the way to the coast. "Keep her safe," he said. "If she'll let you!"

Alex snorted. "She doesn't seem to need much protecting these days." He paused a moment, then added, more quietly, "You'll tell my parents, and Scott? It's not just for Raven. It's for me. I want to make something of myself, and I have a Gift for fighting -- it's only right I use it for a cause that _matters_."

Privately, Erik wasn't so sure he'd chosen the best of causes, but it would hardly be the first time a hot-headed young man had picked the wrong battle. Let him learn from his own mistakes, and grow the wiser for them. If nothing else, Erik could respect a man who took a side, and held it.

"I will," he promised.

Behind them, Raven was making her own brief farewells. She hugged Armando, then Henry, who blushed fiercely for it. As Erik approached, he saw her hesitate there, clasping Henry's hand.

"You're still kind of a rubbish monk," she told him, with a smile that aimed for teasing and fell rather short of its mark. "But a good _person_. I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me, and for John."

Henry lifted his shoulders in an awkward shrug. "It's what anyone would have done."

"No," she said seriously. "It's not. It's far, far better." She took a deep breath, then said, all in a rush -- "You could come with us, you know."

Henry paused for a very long moment, staring into her face. In all honesty, Erik couldn't begin to guess what his response to that might be.

It hadn't been many hours since Erik himself had seriously considered leaving his life in Shrewsbury for good in order to accompany this fierce, strong-willed woman on her journey. Just to see what she might make of herself next. And _he_ didn't have the excuse of being half in love with her.

"No," Brother Henry said, with rueful finality. "I couldn't."

"No," she echoed. She gave him a sweet, sad smile. "I suppose not."

She kissed him then, soft and swift, and then released his hands and pulled away.

For Erik, she had no particular words, and neither did he. She did hug him, which he endured stoically, and then mounted her dark horse, the saddlebag already firmly secured at its flank.

"You know," she did remark, looking down at him, "it's most vexing that I will not be here to see this mystery through. For we still don't know who murdered John, and I suppose now I never will."

"Know that he will be avenged," Erik told her. "And your father, too."

A shadow passed across her face. "Yes, and my father. Though I fear there's little doubt left who killed _him_, if Cain Marko now serves the Earl of Chester. Father never would have gone along with such a betrayal." Her gaze strayed past him to where Charles lingered at a respectful distance in the open doorway of the house. "Charles might be right," she said abruptly. "If that so-called crown Trask made was indeed intended for a telepath...I am not sure the Empress should ever have worn it."

Erik allowed her the barest hint of a smile. "Then we are all three in agreement, for once."

"Well, stranger things have happened! Take care, Erik," she said sincerely. "I'll be seeing you."

He had no doubt that was truth. And then Raven and Alex turned their horses to the west, and rode off quietly into the darkness, bound for a far wider world than could be found here in Shrewsbury.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erik decides whom he can trust, the puzzle begins to be pieced together, and an accusation is made.

The grange seemed somehow smaller once Raven and Alex had gone. It was as though those who remained all let out a quiet exhalation together. The prevailing mood was one of relief. Not that Erik wouldn't miss her, but this was one major hurdle they'd now overcome. They'd had to set all other matters aside for the past frantic day, with her danger so near and pressing, but now she was off; she was safe. Life could return to a more normal pace.

Although with these new revelations about the Earl of Chester -- both his ambitions and telepathy -- Erik wryly supposed that "normal" was perhaps too much to hope for anytime soon. The town of Chester lay about forty miles north of Shrewsbury, distant enough that Erik rarely had cause to consider it, but now feeling rather too close for comfort. Nathaniel Essex was this shire's northern neighbor, and already a very powerful one. So long as he played the Empress's ally, he already posed threat enough to lands now nominally under King Anthony's control. But harboring dreams of conquest in his own name would make Chester a worrisome neighbor indeed.

But that problem would need to wait. Now, the hour was late, and with the general release of tension came a certain pleasant weariness. This was not the time for any further deliberations.

"Well," Angel said briskly, "for all the to-do, I am glad to see there was no real mischief in the wind tonight. Do any of you need beds overnight, or do you mean to set off again yourselves?"

"I do have two horses yet here with me," Charles put in from the sidelines. "If anyone trusts me enough to ride alongside me!"

Armando grinned at that. "I have no quarrel with you, my lord. You gave up more information than you got in return, and two fine horses as well, at only the cost of one odd helmet. If it had been you chasing Allerdyce, I do believe you would have simply plucked the knowledge you needed from his mind and sent him along on his way. No need to kill! No, Charles, I am content. Henry, is your mind at ease now that your assistant is safely fled?"

Brother Henry still stood gazing off into the dark forest where Raven had gone. He stirred slowly at being called, shaking himself a little. "I suppose so. But I should prefer some time to myself tonight." He looked to Angel and Janos, giving them a pale smile. "If it's no bother to you, I will take that bed you offered."

At Angel's nod, he turned and made his way into the little house, shoulders hunched forward. Poor lad! But he had made his choice, and would grow the stronger for it, as Armando had predicted.

"And I'll remain to look after him," Armando sighed. "It must be past midnight by now, we've already missed Matins and Lauds. May as well bide out the rest of the night here, and receive our penance in the morning."

"Very well." Charles turned to Erik, eyes alight. "Then I suppose it's down to the two of us again. Care for another night ride, Erik? I can think of no better company for it."

"Gladly," Erik agreed. He arched an eyebrow. "Though I might well ask how you have kept two horses for yourself, despite the raiding party today, when you insisted you must hide Raven's away lest they be claimed for the king's army."

Charles laughed. "Ah well, perhaps I was being overcautious. And besides, there were too many layers to the game you and I were playing then. You would never have believed me if I had simply told you the truth!"

* * *

They rode out by the slower, gentler path, the same way they'd first approached the grange on the previous evening. Charles's two remaining horses were not quite so fine as the ones Raven and Alex had ridden out. One was a stiff-necked chestnut stallion, tall and rangy, which Charles had claimed for himself; the second looked more like a plowhorse than a nobleman's steed.

"Because he is," Charles admitted. "Your horse belongs to Alex's friend in Thornbury, which I have promised to return tomorrow. The sheriff's men did not bother searching so far afield for fresh mounts, so this cob was spared the raid. But it's a steady, placid beast, and gave Alex no trouble earlier."

"And yours? It looks like the same you rode in on when first you came to the abbey."

"Yes, he is." Charles patted the chestnut's neck fondly. "In truth, I gave up my best horses tonight, but I've always preferred this fellow anyway. He can be a bit stubborn and ill-tempered, but once you've earned his trust, you'll never find a more loyal companion."

He cut Erik a sidelong look as he said it, which Erik could feel rather than see, like a light brush against the edges of his awareness. He allowed himself a private smile. "You don't feel you've come out the worse for tonight's exchange? A helmet would seem a poor substitute for a fiancee."

"Call it the helm for the horses, rather," Charles retorted. "Raven's freedom was never part of any bargain. _That_ I considered a sacred charge laid upon me, especially with her father now gone. I owed it to the alliance others made for us to see her to safety. And now we can consider that debt discharged. It frees us both, in the end."

"You do not regret the loss of your bride, then?"

"Of her goodwill and friendship -- yes, I do deeply regret losing those. But marriage with Raven?" Charles shook his head emphatically. "No, my friend, that I doubt either of us should ever rue. We would not have been suited as husband and wife." He smiled, then, with a distant sort of fondness. "You know, she once made me promise never to read her thoughts too deeply. For she said a wife must keep some mystery about her, or her husband should grow bored!"

Erik could imagine it all too well, and laughed. "And how old was she at the time?"

"Oh, all of ten years, perhaps," Charles said with a grin. "Heaven help the person who _does_ eventually win her heart!"

"If he's bold enough to earn it, I'm sure he'll do well enough, whoever he might be. And what about you?" Erik kept his tone deliberately light. "Any other prospective brides hoping to be claimed, now you're finally free of that childhood betrothal?"

"Hardly!" Charles laughed, shooting him another sly glance. "Which suits me well. I'm not particularly interested in finding a wife."

The night was warm and quiet. They rode on companionably, side by side where the path permitted it, while Erik let his thoughts ramble on ahead, unconcerned as to what Charles might or might not overhear.

"You'll miss her," Charles remarked softly. "Raven, I mean."

Erik shrugged. "I suppose so. She certainly made for interesting company! But she was never meant to remain trapped in Shrewsbury, disregarding politics. It's far too small for the likes of her."

"But not for you? Did you never think to go with her, Erik?"

"I did seriously consider it," Erik admitted. "But in the end, I'm relieved it did not come to that." He shook his head, bemused. "In another life, I might well have wholeheartedly taken up arms for the Empress myself, like Raven and Alex. But I find myself grown weary of war."

"Oh, I don't believe you'll ever give up the fight itself," Charles murmured. "It's simply that you've chosen a different sort of battlefield. I haven't forgotten poor John Allerdyce. Am I still a suspect, by the way? The monks may have absolved me of his murder, but what about you?"

"I agree with Armando," Erik said with a faint smile. "You may well be capable of killing -- I believe anyone is, given dire enough need -- but not in John's case. You enjoy the game too much, and have too much respect for its players. Murder would cheapen it."

Charles laughed, but without much mirth. "That's still a rather coldblooded assessment of my character! Even if someone _were_ my enemy, and a direct threat to those I cared for, I would do anything in my power to avoid killing them outright. I despise senseless slaughter. It's just…wasteful."

"Sometimes, death is the only option," Erik pointed out. Shaw's slack visage drifted through his memory, a single line of blood oozing down his pale forehead.

"Perhaps," Charles sighed. "But did killing ever bring you peace?"

"It brought me here," Erik said. "So in a way, perhaps, it did."

Charles regarded him pensively for a long moment, and did not comment further.

Some minutes later, as they guided their horses out of the forest and onto the open road that led to St. Giles and the Foregate, Erik asked: "What would you have done, if Raven had refused to turn over that so-called crown?"

Charles brushed his hand along the dark bundle in his own saddlebag, where the helmet now rested. "I would have _convinced_ her, I suppose," he said ruefully. "And hated myself for it afterwards."

"It really is that important to you?" Erik remarked.

"If it truly is the weapon that Nathaniel Essex ordered Trask to create, and it _works_? Yes," Charles said heavily. "Because it absolutely cannot fall into the wrong hands. I would have you destroy it first."

"Well, I suppose you'll have to try it out and see."

* * *

They rode in openly at the abbey gates, since Charles was known as the king's man and could claim to have been on official business. And anyway, as he pointed out with a wink, he could always just make the guard forget he'd ever seen them. But as it happened, the man was incurious and sleepy, and upon recognizing Charles, simply unbarred the gates to allow them passage and then hurried back into the gatehouse to resume his rest.

They stabled the horses themselves, not wanting to wake any of the abbey grooms, and then Charles tucked the Empress's crown under his arm and nodded to Erik.

"Well, you must be nearly as curious as I am," Charles pointed out, indicating the helmet. "And with your Gift, you might be able to divine how Trask constructed it. Shall we find a private place to try it out?"

He was right -- Erik _was_ curious to see what Charles made of the ugly thing. He considered retiring to Henry's herbarium, but in the end, the hour was late and Erik would be wanting his bed once they were done. And his own workshop was better suited to their purpose, anyway.

To exit back out onto the Foregate, they didn't bother disturbing the guard. Erik unbarred the gate as quietly as he could, using his Gift, and Charles pressed a finger to his own temple a moment and then nodded. They slipped through unnoticed, Erik closing and securing the gate again behind them. "The guard?" he murmured.

"He was already halfway to sleep of his own volition," Charles confirmed. "I simply helped him along."

"Useful trick."

Once they reached Erik's house, Erik led him directly into the workshop and lit a lamp while Charles settled down onto a bench along the wall, the helmet resting on his lap. After a moment's hesitation, Erik sat down beside him. Something about the quiet stillness of this private space, the flickering flame in the solitary lamp, after two nights riding side by side -- all created a comfortable familiarity between them now.

"Well," Charles said, staring down at the helmet in his hands, "I suppose I'd better see if this was indeed a secret worth John Allerdyce's life."

"I think the message he carried was the more deadly of the two," Erik remarked tartly.

"Let's find out!" And with a deep breath, Charles placed the helmet firmly upon his own head.

It looked faintly ridiculous on him, swallowing up his pale face, but the intent expression in his eyes defied laughter. He was very still for a long minute. Erik wondered what thoughts must be tumbling about in that canny mind of his, and waited.

And then Charles laughed.

"Nothing!" he said, sounding very nearly delighted. He tugged the helmet off and dropped it carelessly to the floor, grinning widely. "It does absolutely nothing! There was no impact on my Gift whatsoever. It doesn't work! All that time and energy and worry wasted, all over an unsightly _dud_!"

He slouched back against the wall, boneless with relief, legs splayed. His knee knocked comfortably against Erik's. It was the most loose and unguarded Erik had ever seen him, and almost mesmerizing. But Erik held himself cautiously still, to ask: "You're not angry at this result?"

"Angry?" Charles laughed again. "God, no. I'm _thrilled_. This means that Trask has yet failed. Nathaniel Essex is still limited by his own natural powers -- which I grant you are formidable enough. But it's the best possible outcome." Sobering a little, he added, "Although I do wonder why Dirk Holme felt it necessary to send the helm along with his treasury, in that case. But perhaps he was not close within Trask and Marko's confidence himself, and didn't know the experiment had been a failure. And I'll still need to attach it to the device in the castle dungeon, just in case it's the connection between the two that matters, but I really would have expected _some_ effect from the helmet alone." He tilted his head to one side, to better meet Erik's eyes. "Now I really am sorry for all the trouble I gave Raven about it. She could well have delivered this to her Empress with no ill consequence. Goodness knows Emma could have done nothing with it!"

"Yes," Erik said quietly. "That had indeed been my intention."

Charles stilled, studying Erik's face with sudden intensity. "I'm sorry, I don't follow you."

"That thing _is_ a dud," Erik informed him. He made a loose gesture, and the helmet at Charles's feet balled itself up into a crumpled heap of scrap metal. "I made it myself yesterday, and swapped it for the one in Raven's saddlebag just before dawn."

"You…" Charles was gaping at him now, a little slack-jawed.

Erik shrugged. "I knew it was somehow meant to be a telepath's weapon, and didn't want to risk it. Certainly I couldn't let Emma Frost get her hands on it. And at the time I wasn't yet sure what you would do with it yourself, if you did make a play for it. Which, in fairness, you _did_. I'm glad to see my suspicions were unfounded, but really, you can't blame me for being cautious."

Charles's eyes were wide and bright. Slowly, his lips curved into a wondering smile. "You know, Moira did warn me that someone would outthink me eventually," he murmured. "I just hadn't expected...but how did you know I wouldn't simply pluck this plot out of your thoughts?"

"If you'd ever searched through my mind for information about this so-called crown, it would have been much earlier in our acquaintance," Erik explained, starting to relax. So far, Charles seemed to be taking his minor deception well. "I imagine that was why you first sought me out, wasn't it? Searching for any metalworker with such capabilities. The broken bridle was clearly just an excuse. Well, at that time I knew nothing of the crown, so you would have contented yourself on that point then. And once we reached the grange, I knew all of your attention -- telepathy included -- would be on Raven. And she had no knowledge of the swap. She sincerely believed that the helmet she pulled out of that saddlebag was the same baggage she'd been carrying the whole time. Why, then, should you suspect anything further?"

"And I didn't!" Charles was grinning outright by now, staring at Erik with almost gleeful disbelief. "Well, have I earned your trust yet? For clearly I have not been prying into your thoughts all night, if you managed to slip this past me."

Erik leaned back against the wall, matching Charles's loose sprawl. Their hands brushed together where they rested between them on the bench. "Yes," Erik said simply. "I do trust you, Charles."

"Good!" Charles said, and leaned in to kiss him.

The kiss was soft and lingering, more an expression of relief than passion, and Erik relaxed into it. When Charles broke it off, he pulled away only far enough to meet Erik's eyes, assessing whatever he might find there. Erik reached up to cup his neck and tug him back again. This felt right, somehow, a natural progression of their unusual acquaintance. Charles hummed a little against Erik's lips, an impression of _satisfaction_ unspooling along the edges of Erik's mind. It felt a bit like the sensation of a purring cat. Erik chuckled into the kiss as he deepened it.

He lost track of time there, in those warm, unhurried kisses, feeling the smoothness of Charles's neck under his hand. Charles pressed his own palm against Erik's thigh, bracing himself as he leaned into him. Beyond that, though, they restrained themselves. Charles didn't scramble up into Erik's lap, and Erik didn't pull their bodies flush against one another. They just kissed, slow and easy, with no further destination in mind.

Eventually, Charles did pull away, albeit after a few more false starts and stops. "Much as I'd like to continue as we are," he said regretfully, "it does occur to me that there still is the _actual_ helmet somewhere, and the question of its viability remains yet unanswered."

His cheeks looked charmingly flushed in the lamplight, and his lips a very appealing dark pink. But Erik dragged his gaze back up to Charles's eyes with a sigh. It was very late, and he did have a point.

With no particular desire to move away from him just yet, Erik instead flicked a hand and yanked the real helmet out from beneath the heap of scrap metal. It made a loud scraping noise as it emerged, and Charles winced. Erik just grinned sharply and floated the helmet over to their bench.

He had matched it reasonably well with his false imitation, at least in outward appearance. The true helm was not quite so smoothly formed, and no more attractive for it. It was not made of steel, however. Erik had not yet been able to discern the alloy that formed it. It had elements of both iron and nickel, and perhaps aluminum, but melted together with more obscure metals that would take even Erik time to pick apart.

"My lord," he said sardonically, presenting it to Charles with a flourish.

Charles rolled his eyes as he plucked it out of the air. He studied it a few moments, then shrugged and tried it on.

This time, Charles snatched it back off again almost immediately, his face pale. "Oh! Well, that's certainly unpleasant."

Erik frowned, uneasiness prickling the back of his neck. "What effect does it have?"

"Well, the good news is that it doesn't enhance my Gift," Charles said slowly, turning it over and over in his hands. "Which was my greatest fear, should another telepath acquire it."

"What, then?"

"It cancels out my telepathy entirely," Charles told him. "Wearing that, I can't hear a damn thing."

"Hmm. May I?" At Charles's nod, Erik took it from him, running his fingers along it and reaching more deeply into the metal with his Gift. But there wasn't much he could do, really. He might eventually be able to identify the precise composition of this metal, and even recreate it, but couldn't begin to guess why it should interact with telepathy in such a way. "This Trask must be clever indeed. But why build such a thing, if he serves a telepath?"

Charles tapped his lips thoughtfully, frowning at it. "Accidentally, perhaps. If he'd been trying to create its opposite, and stumbled across this alloy instead. Or if they hoped to actually capture the Empress -- fastening this upon her head would imprison her indeed."

"An army equipped with such for all its soldiers would be impervious to her Gift," Erik mused. "Not that the Empress Emma is the sort of general to take to the field herself."

"No, but there's certainly potential there. And we might turn that against the Earl of Chester himself, should he ever enter the fray."

They regarded each other steadily, joined in consideration of the possible ramifications. Eventually, Erik sighed and proffered the helmet. "Food for thought. But we should probably sleep on it. I believe this is yours?"

Charles shook his head slowly. "No. You can hold on to it for now. That thing makes my skin crawl. I only wanted it to learn what it did, and now I have that information. I have no reason to keep it."

"Are you sure? It could easily be used against you," Erik pointed out.

Charles smiled, but shook his head again. "I trust you."

He got to his feet and then hesitated, looking down at Erik. He looked about as exhausted as Erik felt, with the release of long-held tension, and he swayed a little where he stood. "Tomorrow," he said. "There's much to consider, and discuss. Will you tell your Benedictine friends? I'm concerned about what this helmet implies, and whoever did murder Allerdyce to acquire it is probably still here in Shrewsbury. We can't let them walk free."

"I never intended to allow that," Erik agreed. "Tomorrow, then."

He walked Charles out to the door, but before he could open it, Charles turned back to grip the front of his cotte and tug him down a few inches, pressing one more hard, lingering kiss against Erik's lips. The word _stay_ hovered at the front of Erik's mind, but he held the thought tight. Instead he let Charles release him, with a quick smile, and slip out the door to return to his own bed at the abbey guest hall.

Erik would have expected rest to elude him that night, with so much to worry over within his own mind. But to his surprise, he was asleep practically the instant his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Brothers Henry and Armando returned to the abbey at dawn, and were back in their proper places amongst the other monks for the Prime office. At chapter that morning, though Henry braced himself for the inevitable chastisement and penance, it soon became clear that if anyone had noticed their absence at Matins, it had been forgotten or dismissed. For after yesterday's stress and upheaval, even more excitement was in the air, albeit of a more hopeful nature. King Anthony, with all his new remounts, tithes, and confiscated provisions, was preparing to move southward on toward Gloucester and a new battlefield. The vanguard of his army would march the very next day, and while the king himself and his personal guard would linger in Shrewsbury for another few days, their departure was well nigh at last. In order to demonstrate his pleasure with the results of his foraging, and forgiveness of all past slights, Anthony intended to hold a proper feast at the castle this very evening, for his officers and noble retinue as well as notable citizens of town and Foregate, and the abbot and prior had both been expressly invited. This meant a great flurry of preparations amongst the brothers, in which minor sins were apparently being overlooked.

Once released from chapter, Henry recused himself to his herbarium, as per his usual. It was a good place to think, and he could busy his hands with various minor tasks as his mind ruminated over all they'd learned from Charles Xavier at the grange.

Armando stopped by early in the afternoon, with Erik at his elbow. "One of the lay servants is covering the gatehouse as porter," Armando explained. "I've been released from those duties for the rest of the day and evening. The abbot is permitted an attendant for the king's feast, and he's chosen me for it."

"Probably at Armando's own insistence." Erik took a seat at his accustomed bench under the window. "The best gossip won't be found among the abbey guests tonight!"

"It's because the abbot values my good judgement," Armando retorted loftily. "Who else among the brethren knows so much about all the good people of the town? I can ensure he addresses each bailiff by the correct name, at least!" More seriously, he added, "Besides, this way I can observe all those closest to the king, and the more highly placed in his army. If our murderer is indeed among them, we're rapidly running out of time to catch him."

"Yes, that's a good point." Henry frowned. In all the worry and distraction of the past day, he couldn't remember if he'd told them about Remy LeBeau's visit and warning. "We should discuss--"

Erik held up a hand. "If you'll wait but a minute, you won't have to repeat yourself later. Charles should be joining us as well." When Henry just blinked at him, he sighed. "We clearly need to pool our information. We all seem to possess different pieces of this miserable puzzle -- only together is there a chance of forming the full picture."

If Erik had expected Henry to press the argument, he needn't have worried. All of Henry's animosity toward Charles Xavier had been drained away overnight. "That makes sense," he said instead. "Do you know if he had a chance to examine the Empress's crown?"

A strange smile flickered across Erik's face, gone before Henry could identify it. "We did, yes. It apparently blocks his Gift completely. Not the worst case scenario by any means, but worth consideration."

"Worth killing over, though?" Henry drummed his fingers against the table. "Well, that along with the message of betrayal, perhaps. Is it really one of the _king's_ men we're seeking, after all? Or one of the Earl of Chester's?"

Erik and Armando exchanged a grim look. "Or both," Armando said. "The Empress might not be the only monarch who has been betrayed."

"A spy, you mean?"

"It's certainly possible," Charles said from the doorway. "If I were hoping to keep Anthony and Emma pitted against one another while I carried out my own plans, I would certainly want my own agents in _both_ camps. Hello, Erik, Henry, Armando -- may we join you?"

When Charles stepped within, Henry could see that he was accompanied by Moira MacTaggert. He got to his feet instinctively at the presence of a lady. "Mistress MacTaggert!" he said, bemused. "Um, what are you--"

"She's with me, and knows all that I do," Charles said firmly. "In fact, Moira is a good part of the reason I came to Shrewsbury at all."

Neither Armando nor Erik appeared perturbed by this information, so Henry just nodded his own acceptance. The herbarium workshop felt rather smaller and warmer than usual, with five people assembled within, and the door and shutters closed tightly against any potential eavesdroppers. They seemed to be forming their own conspiracy, indeed!

Once all had made themselves as comfortable as possible, Moira spoke first. "I should probably explain my own small role in this," she said, not at all discomfited to be taking the lead in this group of men. "My brother, Kevin, was a soldier of the garrison here in Shrewsbury. I've since learned that he was Dirk Holme's own squire. When the siege began, he must have taken thought to his possible death, and sought to heal the breach between us. He had learned of our father's recent passing, and hoped that I, at least, would be receptive to him. So he sent me a letter."

She smiled sadly, fingering at the clasp of her cloak. "He didn't tell me outright where he was, or what he was doing. By guesswork and a few unintentional hints scattered through the letter, I inferred he was most likely part of the siege here -- but until I found his body, I genuinely didn't know for sure. Regardless, there was a certain undercurrent of...fear, perhaps, that painted a worrying picture in his letter, beyond mere concern about an upcoming battle. A fear of betrayal, specifically. Mentions of work being done that left him uneasy, that didn't seem to serve his cause." Moira shrugged, a little helplessly. "It was all so vague! But he was my little brother. Even if he had chosen a different side, I worried for him. So after much deliberation, I determined to travel to Shrewsbury myself. And I reached out to Charles to assist me."

Charles now took up his part in the tale. "I've known Moira for several years. I had business at her manor, once, and we became acquainted. She knew of my Gift, and thought I might be able to help her discern whatever had Kevin so worried -- assuming, of course, that there was anything more to the matter than her own vague forebodings. Besides, it was time and past that I declared my own allegiance to King Anthony. Unfortunately, we timed it rather too late, and arrived on the very eve of the king's final assault. There was no way we could enter the town by then, or learn anything from Holme or his men. We simply had to wait out the battle along with everyone else. And then came the order to execute the entire garrison."

"And your brother was hanged along with all the rest," Armando said, with very real sympathy. "I am truly sorry!"

But Erik had leaned forward, with an intense expression that Henry could not interpret. "_Kicking and shouting the whole way to the noose,_" he said softly. "That was how Captain Rhodes described it. And protesting that he'd been promised his life."

Armando frowned and swatted his shoulder, hard. "Erik, I hardly think that's appropriate--"

"No, it _is_," Erik insisted. He met Moira's eyes unflinchingly. "I mean no disrespect to you or your brother, my lady, but it may be important." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brooch, large and ornate. It looked like a boar's head.

Moira had gone pale, but she didn't argue. "My brother's, yes, I gave it to you myself. What does this mean to you?"

"This is a very intricate piece of craftsmanship," Erik said -- addressing them all, but still with his gaze on Moira. "Even more so for someone of my Gift. It is unique. Once known, I could identify it again anywhere, with my eyes closed. And I tell you that a man wearing this ornament snuck out of the castle by way of the old river-port, close to midnight on the night before the battle, and made his way over to the king's camp. I will not say that it was Kevin MacTaggert; I did not know the man. But would anyone else have worn this?"

"Much as I wish I could protest otherwise…" Moira sighed, shaking her head. "No. That would make no sense at all. Why would he give it away? If you say the man you saw was wearing this brooch, then it must have been Kevin. But _why_?"

Henry felt something cold and hard settle into the pit of his stomach. "Promised his life," he repeated. "In exchange for...what?"

Erik met his eyes with grim certainty. "Dirk Holme's _personal squire_. Think about it. What information might he have possessed? What was Allerdyce killed to prevent? A certain message, to a certain Empress."

"Good God," Armando breathed, horrified. "You don't mean to imply that her brother was the murderer?"

"No," Charles said. He was regarding Erik shrewdly, with a strange light in his eyes. "That's not what he's implying. You forget the matter of timing -- poor Kevin was already dead by the time Allerdyce was attacked."

Erik nodded confirmation. "By Rhodes's account, he was one of the first to be hanged that afternoon; Allerdyce wasn't killed until just after dark. No, Kevin could not have killed him. But the information he passed along did. I truly am sorry, Moira," he added, and even Henry could tell that he meant it. "But I won't keep you in the dark, not when it concerns your own family."

"No, and I thank you for your honesty," Moira said. She was still very pale, and her hands shook as she took the brooch back from him, but her voice remained steady. "So in the hopes of saving his own life, Kevin turned traitor himself, and passed the information regarding the Earl of Chester's impending betrayal -- and the courier carrying that message -- along to King Anthony."

"It may not have been quite so selfish as that," Charles put in gently. "I intend to warn the king about Chester myself. Nathaniel Essex is a serious threat to both sides, and it will likely take both Anthony and Emma's forces working together to stop him. Kevin may have understood that, and hoped to forestall disaster. But it didn't save his life after all." He looked around at the rest of them somberly. "Whatever you may think of Anthony, he tries to be an honorable man. If he had promised Kevin his life, he would have seen it through. And if the king himself had ordered the hunt for Allerdyce, it would have been done openly, like the search for Raven yesterday. No, I don't believe that this message ever reached him."

"A spy," Henry said, thinking it through. "As we were considering earlier. One of Chester's agents among the king's party, perhaps."

Charles nodded. "Very likely. That would have been reason to try to cover up Allerdyce's murder, as well. They would not have wanted anyone to know that the message ever existed at all. And I suppose acquiring the treasury in that saddlebag would have seemed a pleasant bonus as well! No one works for my cousin Nathaniel out of love of him, believe me. It always comes down to either fear or money, or both."

"Work it through," Erik urged. "If someone arrived at the king's camp that night -- who would they have spoken to? Any of the guards?"

"I can find out the names of any guards who would have been on duty that night," Charles said. "I doubt Kevin would have felt safe enough to pass along that message to a mere soldier, though. So if it went beyond them, they would have fetched an officer."

Moira gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. "Remy. They would have brought him to Remy. He was in charge of any newcomers. Oh, God, you don't think…?"

"Remy certainly wasn't the only officer with that authority," Charles pointed out, but he looked grim. "And he served under Obadiah Stane. He would have gone to Stane first, rather than approaching the king himself."

Henry cleared his throat. "Speaking of which. Um, Remy stopped by to see me yesterday, in the midst of the search. I didn't have a chance to tell any of you, but...the short version is, he warned me off the investigation." They were all staring at him now, and he shifted uncomfortably on his bench. "He said he couldn't afford to pursue it any further. Previously, he'd mentioned that Stane had interrogated a number of the men of the garrison personally before the hangings, and Remy was going to ask him if any of them had mentioned Allerdyce. We didn't know very much at all at that point, I thought it was worth a try."

"And now he wants you to drop it," Erik said, voice flat and hard. "What else did he tell you?"

"That…" Henry searched his memory for the precise phrase. "That there were some men even he could not accuse."

They all looked at one another, the pieces slowly coming together. "Captain Stane," Armando said. "He was deliberately implicating the king's most trusted advisor."

There was silence for a moment as the potential significance of that sunk in.

"Charles," Erik said quietly. He had shifted at some point, or Charles had, and they were now seated side by side at the same bench. Something passed between them in a glance, and Henry wondered if they were communicating telepathically.

"No, I haven't read either of them," Charles grimaced. "Not in any great detail. Oh, don't give me that look, I would hardly earn the king's trust by rummaging through the minds of those closest to him! And up until recently I had been hunting for information about the device in the castle, not a courier's murder." He sighed, looking around at the others. "Well, that changes now. You do realize you're all asking me to invade any number of quite possibly innocent minds, in the hopes of sniffing out this murderer?"

"Not many innocents, at that level," Erik retorted.

"It's still possible that Remy is both himself innocent, _and_ incorrect in his own suspicions," Charles pointed out. "It might be someone we haven't even considered yet. Up until last night, you and Henry would have had _me_ on trial for murder!"

Moira reached across to put a hand on his arm. "Charles," she said softly. "There's only one way to find out for sure."

"I know." He got to his feet, his expression unreadable. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make my own preparations for the evening." And with one last enigmatic glance toward Erik, he left them.

"Well," Armando said in the wake of his abrupt departure, "at least the feast tonight is sure to be interesting!"

* * *

The town of Shrewsbury was in high spirits that evening, as though it were a festival. Armando wryly thought they were more likely celebrating the king's imminent departure than his honor. Well, what difference did it make? After a month of siege, a bloody battle, and all the disruption that followed, it was good to have cause for celebration.

Armando and his fellow servitor followed closely on their abbot and prior's heels through the castle gates and into the courtyard, which was thronged with clerics, bishops, local nobility, a few select townsfolk, and of course all of their servants for the evening, along with the usual soldiers and officers. They loitered there for a time, waiting for the king's call to table. Throughout all of this, Armando kept his ears pricked and eyes alert for anything suspicious -- as though he might somehow pick the murderer out of this crowd! He had to laugh at himself. This matter had him jumping at shadows.

Well, at least _he_ wasn't the telepath tasked with sorting out the wheat from this chaotic chaff. He began to appreciate Charles's evident reluctance earlier. It could not be easy for him to have to actively listen to so many conflicting minds.

Finally, they all made their way indoors, and Armando took his place behind the abbot's chair. A server for every plate was required at the king's supper, and while it was not the sort of menial duty Armando generally preferred, he was glad to have requested it this evening. His abbot was a mild man who would make few physical demands upon him, and placed a far higher value on Armando's intelligence than his assiduousness with a finger-bowl. He hoped to gather valuable information on the king and his followers tonight, with Armando's assistance, to better know how the abbey might proceed in business going forward.

And if Charles acquired any intelligence of his own to share, well, Armando would be at hand to assist in that endeavor as well.

This was strictly a political and military occasion, so there were no ladies present -- which was a pity, for Armando would have valued Moira's impressions of the assembled company as well. But the king's plunder had evidently been very successful, given the quantity and quality of food and wine being served. There must have been close to five hundred guests present in the hall, and King Anthony presided in obvious good humor.

His chief military advisors flanked him on either side. The mercenary Captain Rhodes appeared content enough, laughing and talking animatedly with those nearby. Armando briefly wondered if Rhodes himself could somehow be their murderer. After all, a mercenary's allegiance might always be purchased elsewhere, and Charles had said that the Earl of Chester bought loyalty with coin -- and fear. True, Rhodes had been most helpful that day at the castle, when they'd first counted the corpses and came up with one too many. But perhaps his willingness to assist was no more than a mask to conceal his own guilt? Certainly he would have had the authority to intercept any message intended for the king, that night before the battle.

But Armando hoped this speculation would prove false. He _liked_ Rhodes, at least what little he knew of him. And Armando had long ago learned to trust his gut instincts when it came to a person's character.

Captain Stane, on the other hand...yes, it was all too easy to suspect him. He appeared in high enough spirits tonight, making a show of joviality. And surely the king must have had good reason to trust him -- Stane had been close confidant to Anthony's father before him, and must have known him since Anthony was a mere child. How might the Earl of Chester have corrupted him? Or had Stane long been plotting against his own sovereign? He certainly had spoken out against the investigation into Allerdyce's death from the very beginning.

From Armando's position at the abbot's lower table, he couldn't see Remy LeBeau, or any of the other officers who might have been commanding the guard at the king's camp on the night Kevin MacTaggert begged audience of the king. It could be any of them, really. They had fixated on Remy simply because he was the person best known to them, having been appointed sheriff. That didn't mean he was any more likely to be guilty.

It didn't mean he _wasn't_, either.

Armando intensely disliked this sort of puzzle. His was not a suspicious nature; he preferred to see the best in people, even those he might personally dislike. This investigation was turning him into Erik Lehnsherr, believing the worst of everyone!

Finally, the long meal ended and dishes were cleared away, leaving only the wine on the table. Musicians would provide entertainment for hours yet. But the servitors were now released, at least for a time, in order to pick over what was left in the kitchens for themselves.

Armando followed his fellows out of the hall, still brooding over the matter, and was perhaps a touch slower than he might have been otherwise. But he would be glad of that soon enough. For just as he neared the exit toward the kitchen, he heard the music falter and stop, discordantly.

He turned to see the cause.

Charles Xavier was striding toward the dais on which the high table stood. Though he was not a tall man, he held himself with a confidence that lent him authority, and pitched his voice perfectly to carry throughout the crowded hall. "Your Grace!" he called. "Before you and your company depart Shrewsbury, there is a matter I must bring to you, and I beg you'll hear me and do right. I demand justice on one here in this company, who has abused his position in service to your enemy and committed murder upon one who did him no injury. Will you hear me?"

_Oh, Charles,_ Armando thought with a sigh. _This is really how you want to go about it?_

Well, give the man his due, once he set his mind to a task, he certainly wasted no time!

King Anthony looked down on him, not quite frowning, but not best pleased by this interruption. "Xavier, is it? This is most unusual."

"I do apologize for the timing of my appeal." Charles did not appear the least bit contrite. "But the matter is urgent, and could not be put off any longer. Your Grace's justice is every honest man's right."

"This is true," the king said slowly. "And if your claims have merit, murder and treason are grave matters indeed. But if it is truly justice you seek here, should you not have first brought your charge to my sheriff?"

"I could not do that, Your Grace," Charles said, and from his place on the fringes of the hall Armando's heart clenched in his chest. "Because Remy LeBeau is the man that I stand here to accuse."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it all comes to a head.

The great hall of Shrewsbury castle was noisy enough by an ordinary person's standards; to Charles, it sounded positively cacophonous. Over the years, he'd learned how to strengthen his mental shields, construct walls thick enough to block out all other minds, even in a crowd like this. But he preferred not to. True silence felt intensely uncomfortable, like being trapped in an echo chamber within his own mind, his own thoughts rebounding against the shields like a moth behind glass. So instead of shutting all those minds out entirely, he simply numbed his awareness of them, letting it fade into a low background murmur as he focused in on only a few minds in particular:

King Anthony, his irritation at the disruption of the festivities now giving way to confusion mingled with anger at Charles's accusation, as well as a bright, sharp curiosity and almost gleeful anticipation of what might follow;

Brother Armando, the only other person present who might lend Charles support in his charges, standing somewhere unseen on the fringe of the hall, his clever mind quickly adapting to this abrupt change in circumstances and already tumbling forward down several different possible paths in preparation for any number of potential outcomes;

And Remy LeBeau, whose mind buzzed jarringly in defiance of Charles's telepathy, his Gift somehow clashing uncomfortably against Charles's. Different minds had very different flavors, in Charles's perception, and those with Gifts tended to have their own particular idiosyncracies; Remy's was oddly slippery, elusive, like trying to grasp at wisps of smoke. But strong emotions still broke out of the mist: until this very moment, LeBeau truly hadn't expected to hear his own name called out for these crimes. Was it arrogance? Overconfidence? A gambler's certainty that no matter how poor the odds, surely the next roll of the dice must fall in his favor? For his shock now rang out loud and clear as a bell.

LeBeau's table was just below the dais, a place of honor, and he was seated amongst others of the king's officers. Now he got to his feet in a rush and clatter, his handsome face dark with anger and incredulous scorn. He appeared every inch the innocent man wrongfully accused. "Is this madness or folly?" he demanded, loudly enough to cut through the rumblings of the crowd. "Master Xavier, I have never had quarrel with you that I know of; what do you mean by blackening my name with such outrageous slander? Treason, you accuse me of, and murder -- by God, who am I even meant to have killed? For I know of none!"

Charles regarded him coolly. The first time he'd ever noticed somewhat amiss about LeBeau had been over Kevin MacTaggert's body, back when Moira had first identified him amongst the ninety-four others lying in this castle's ward. _By God, I am sorry!_ he had exclaimed then, a thunderbolt of mingled guilt and shame crashing so strongly that Charles had mentally reeled back. _I did not know -- I would have saved him for you, if only I had known!_

Charles had been preoccupied with other matters then -- the half-dissembled device in the castle dungeons, the collective mourning of those claiming their own dead nearby, Moira's fresh grief. He'd already discovered that LeBeau's mind was oblique and difficult to read, and it hadn't seemed worth the effort at the time. He'd assumed LeBeau's reaction was due to his role in carrying out the orders of execution, now unexpectedly complicated by his personal interest in Moira, and had not probed deeper -- more fool he! 

If only he hadn't been so quick to dismiss him then, this all might have come to a head much sooner. But then, perhaps, he would not have had the chance to speak with Raven, or earn Erik's trust; the pieces might not have all come together properly. So he could not truly regret the delay.

"Do you not?" Charles said evenly, his lip curling with distaste. He turned back to address the king directly. "Your Grace, the murder in question was first brought to your attention by Brother Henry, of the Benedictine house here in Shrewsbury. This was after the count of the dead was made, and one found unlike the others, not lawfully hanged but strangled from behind, and then the body placed such as to use your own orders to conceal the foul deed."

King Anthony grimaced. "I do remember. I gave the good brother permission to investigate that death further, and present anything he might find directly to my sheriff."

"And so he did," LeBeau put in quickly. "Brother Henry has discussed the matter with me more than once, and I fully supported him in his pursuit of justice for the murdered man. So how do I come to be accused myself? I do not believe the brother is even present here tonight!"

Charles cast out with his Gift to confirm Henry's absence, then gave Armando the mental equivalent of a tap on the shoulder. "He is not. But Brother Armando is, who has been aiding Henry in this investigation, and can speak for him."

Fortunately, Armando was quick to understanding, and already making his way forward in the hall. There was a flavor of remonstrance in his mind, pointedly directed at Charles -- _a little more warning, next time, if you please._ Charles suppressed a smile.

"I am here, your Grace, my lords," Armando said aloud. "It is as Master Xavier has said; I have been working with Brother Henry in the matter of John Allerdyce's murder, and can speak in his place."

In some ways, better that it was him here tonight, rather than young Henry, Charles thought. Henry was very intelligent, but would have been visibly ill at ease among such a crowd of notables. Armando simply clasped his hands and stood patiently at Charles's side, tall and calm, apparently indifferent to all those curious eyes upon him.

Charles quashed a flare of regret that it could not be Erik beside him now. But the word of a tradesman would not have the same weight as that of a monk or a gentleman, and there was no use wishing for the impossible.

"Well, then," King Anthony said. "Speak! What have you learned of this murdered man, such that Master Xavier has fixed upon my sheriff as culprit?"

Charles debated if he ought to press the information directly into Armando's mind, but a shrewd glance from the monk settled him. Armando spoke up clearly: "We learned the dead man's name to be John Allerdyce, known for a courier in Lord Holme's service. Brother Henry found the place where he was waylaid and slain -- no chance encounter with a footpad, but a deliberate, premeditated act of violence. And while it is true that Henry discussed all this with the new sheriff, I find it interesting that Master LeBeau neglected to add that only yesterday, he went to Henry himself to urge him to drop the investigation entirely."

_Well played,_ Charles thought.

The king turned a considering look upon LeBeau at that. "Remy, is this so?"

LeBeau pressed his lips into a hard line, eyes shifting from the monk's face to his habit. Charles could hear him calculate these new odds: what risk calling a man of God a liar? Any way to spin this tale to his own advantage? "I did speak with Brother Henry during our search of the abbey yesterday," LeBeau owned, his tone smooth and charming. "Although now I fear I may have been misunderstood by the good brother! It was a trying day for all of us, I can see how my words might have been misconstrued. He was eager to press his case, but I did not have the time to attend him, and perhaps was less than courteous in excusing myself from the conversation. If an apology is owed, I will surely deliver it. But this should not implicate me in murder! What reason could I possibly have to kill this Allerdyce? I never even knew the man."

"It was not the man himself that mattered. It was the message he carried." Here Armando gestured toward Charles, ceding the floor to him again. "Henry and I were acquainted with Master Xavier, who is currently a guest of the abbey. We thought to enlist his help due to the nature of his Gift."

"My telepathy, he means," Charles remarked, making sure all could hear him. Of course the king and his officers already knew of it. There was no point in hiding. "They were concerned about LeBeau's warning, and the implication that the guilty party was highly placed in your Grace's favor. As it so happens, they were correct."

A pale summary of all that had happened over the past week, and the trust Charles had worked so damn hard to earn! And Erik's name omitted, even though he had put in the most time and effort of all of them to see justice done. It felt deeply unfair.

The king frowned, but the tone of his thoughts was more of curiosity than condemnation, with a certain degree of calculation of his own. Anthony Stark was a practical man, for whom the ends generally did justify the means. "Xavier, are you saying you read my sheriff's mind without his knowledge?"

"Yes," Charles said baldly. "I did. I do not deny that I acted discourteously, but I believed your Grace should know that you harbored a criminal. Remy LeBeau committed murder. I have seen it in his mind. Sheriff he may be -- does that place him above the Crown's justice himself?"

"Your Grace, this is absurd!" LeBeau protested. He pounded his hand on the table for emphasis. "It comes down to a matter of this man's word against mine. What proof has he, beyond what he _claims_ to have heard in my thoughts? He is a liar! I say that I did not know this Allerdyce, never met him, played no role in his death. Again I ask, what proofs does Xavier offer?"

Charles had always known it would come to this. This was why he had been hesitant to use his telepathy in such a way, knowing he could not back it up with any hard evidence. He knew LeBeau was an agent of the Earl of Chester, acting on his behalf while pretending at the king's service -- but what proof of it, outside of LeBeau's own mind? Charles had witnessed the murder of John Allerdyce through LeBeau's memories of that night: the caltrops strewn across the path, waiting patiently within the hut as the shadows lengthened and darkness fell, the sounds of a horse in pain, a rider dismounting, his footsteps approaching the hut -- surprising him from behind the door, strangle-cord at the ready -- the flash of flame as Allerdyce unexpectedly fought back, licking at the cord around his throat--

"Your hands," Charles said abruptly. "Will you show us your hands?"

LeBeau gaped at him. "What?"

"Excellent question," the king said drily. "Master Xavier, do you care to enlighten us?"

Charles blinked away the images that lingered from LeBeau's memory, grounding himself in the here and now. "Allerdyce was Gifted with fire, your Grace. He was attacked from behind with the strangle-cord, and startled by it. He reacted with flame."

"There were marks of it on the body," Armando added, quick to catch up the thread. "Scorched shirtsleeves, singed hair at the base of his neck. He might also have burned his attacker's hands on the cord. My lord sheriff, will you not doff your gloves so that we might see for ourselves?"

Armando glanced over at Charles, seeking confirmation, and Charles nodded. He'd seen it in LeBeau's mind -- no, _felt_ it, the flames licking at his own fingers, hands clenching into fists at his sides in reflexive pain.

He had never seen Remy LeBeau without his gloves since that night. No great thing to notice -- riding gloves were commonly worn by army officers on active duty, even in this summer heat, and when had LeBeau _not_ been on duty? But now potentially damning.

"Come, Remy," King Anthony said, an almost mocking edge to his voice. "It's a simple enough request."

One could not disobey an order from the king. Gritting his teeth, LeBeau removed his gloves.

The damage had been minimal -- a few moments' exposure to flame, nothing serious. A minor inconvenience. The left hand had hardly been scorched at all; there was perhaps a faint reddening of a few fingers. The right had born the brunt, and even that was only a dark red splash across the palm, and one or two small blisters in the center, already mostly healed. It likely caused him some discomfort, at worst.

But plain enough to the eye.

"This happened during the battle itself," LeBeau said, the excuse coming smoothly to his lips. He was indeed an accomplished liar. "The garrison defended with torches as well as swords. I did not even notice until after all was over. This proves nothing, Xavier -- except perhaps that you saw the injury in passing, and twisted your tale to make it appear sinister!"

"No hard proof, perhaps," King Anthony said with deliberation. "But there is clearly more to be probed in this tale of theirs, and I cannot let it pass now." His fingers twitched around his goblet, and he glowered at both LeBeau and Charles in equal displeasure. "This is a millstone you have hung upon my neck, Xavier, when most I need to be free and move swiftly. These accusations cannot be unsaid, and I do believe there is more you yet have not told me -- no, I do not overlook the mention of this murdered courier's message!"

Charles pursed his lips. The message to the Empress was not one he preferred to discuss in so public a forum. If Nathaniel Essex had one agent in Anthony's court, he might well have others, and Charles did not want any to bring him warning that his schemes might be exposed. Espionage was a particularly dangerous game. Taking a chance, he spoke directly to the king's mind: _I will share the contents of this message, and their import, but for your ears only, your Grace. Make of it what you will, but not here!_

There was no outward change in the king's countenance, no indication that anything further had been communicated, but Charles felt a flicker of amusement from his mind, and he inclined his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. Anthony was not yet sure which of these men to believe, but if nothing else, he was avidly curious to see what the next moves in this game might be.

"But I cannot delay my going with the long processes of court law," the king continued, "not even in the case of murder! I have made my plans, they are in motion, I cannot afford to change them. I must depart for Gloucester within two days."

Charles stood firm, as tall as he could make himself appear. "There need be no delay if your Grace countenances trial by combat. I stand by my charge of murder. If Remy LeBeau accepts, I am ready to meet him without any ceremony or preparations. Your Grace may see the outcome tomorrow."

He deliberately ignored the murmur that passed through those assembled, both aloud and within their minds. He already knew how it must appear: LeBeau was half a head taller, of greater reach and strength, an experienced soldier with a Gift for combat. Charles's skills were an unknown quantity here, but he certainly didn't _look_ intimidating.

And LeBeau was beginning to smile now. Cornered as he was, he had only two options before him: a trial of law, with long examination and questioning, and any number of secrets that might be revealed; or simple combat. And he was a talented fighter, confident in his own abilities. Should he prevail, there would be nothing further to fear: trial by combat was considered the judgement of heaven. God's Gifted would become God's acquitted, and no finger could thereafter point at him. He would remain sheriff and maintain his king's favor.

In his heart of hearts, Remy LeBeau was no villain. He was merely an inveterate gambler. And he liked the look of these dice very well indeed.

_Well, I have cast mine,_ Charles thought grimly. _Winner takes all!_

"Let it be so, your Grace," LeBeau announced. "I accept."

* * *

The hour was past midnight; Erik had heard the Matins bells chime some time since. He could not sleep. All the shutters of his modest home were open to the night air, and he lit no candles, content to pace the room by moon and starlight alone. The moon was nearing full, and the skies clear; a cool breeze filtered in, signaling that the summer might be on its way out at last. It did nothing to improve Erik's temper.

He was going to _kill_ Charles.

Oh, he knew what had transpired at the king's feast. Armando had of course hastened to bring him the news as soon it ended. Remy LeBeau accused, in as public a manner as could possibly be imagined; trial by combat demanded and accepted, set for nine o'clock the next morning. Such trials were not altogether common, but Erik had seen their like before: ugly, brutal duels that could last hours if not all day long, with no rests permitted, no quarter given. Whoever was defeated was condemned by God Himself, and should he somehow survive the sword, only the gallows awaited.

What the _hell_ had Charles been thinking?

Somehow, Erik was not in the least bit surprised to hear the rapping upon his front door. He stalked over to yank it open by its metal hinges. And yes, there was Charles, his eyes nearly translucent in the moonlight, shoulders hunched in what might have been either defensiveness or exhaustion.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" Erik demanded.

Charles offered him a lukewarm smile. "Quite possibly. I assume Brother Armando told you?"

"Of course he did," Erik said acidly. "He's been a loyal friend since long before either of us set foot in England. But he's already been and gone an hour ago."

"The King wanted to speak privately before releasing me. I had to explain the role played by the Earl of Chester in all this mess, and that I preferred _not_ to discuss before the whole assembly." Charles sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "May I come in, at least? Or would you prefer to have this argument in the road where anyone might hear?"

Grudgingly, Erik stepped aside enough to allow him entrance, then slammed the door shut behind him. He left the shutters open -- none opened directly onto the Foregate, anyway, since his workshop took up that whole side of the dwelling. And his neighbors should be asleep by this hour.

It was Charles's turn to pace about the room, now that he was within. He didn't seem to know where to settle. Erik watched him a moment, then said, more quietly: "It _was_ Remy LeBeau? You're certain?"

"Of course I'm certain," Charles snapped. "Do you think I would have publicly accused him if I wasn't?" He scrubbed a hand across his face, grimacing. "I watched the murder through his eyes, Erik; he's our killer. There's no question of it. But unfortunately, there's also no _proof_."

"We could have _found_ proof," Erik said doggedly. "If you could see how he did it, surely there must be some evidence he left behind. The caltrop, the coin…?"

But Charles was shaking his head. "Not enough. Nothing we could link unquestionably to LeBeau. He doesn't particularly enjoy killing, I'll give him that much, but he _is_ very good at it."

"Yes, well, you may find that out for yourself in the morning." It was meant to be scathing, but lacked the edge Erik would have preferred. "Damnit, Charles, trial by _combat_? You're the one who claims killing is never the answer!"

"No, I said it was wasteful, and that I would do anything in my power to avoid it," Charles retorted. "And I will try. I can win without killing him outright."

"So that he can hang instead? Don't be ridiculous. And don't expect him to show you the same mercy. One way or another, _one_ of you will die tomorrow. And that was _your_ decision -- one you had no right to make!"

Charles laughed harshly. "No? And who else could have accused him, and had any hope of getting justice for it? A Benedictine monk? They can't exactly challenge anyone to a duel!"

"I would have done it myself!"

"Now who's being ridiculous? LeBeau is an officer, a gentleman -- the King himself appointed him sheriff of this shire! You're a tradesman, Erik. A village smith. If you had challenged him, he would have laughed in your face, and like as not _you'd_ have been the one hanged for it." Charles shook his head. "Only another nobleman could throw down this particular gauntlet. And who else would even care?"

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? A nameless courier from the opposite party, whose death made no impact on anyone of import. Who would ever care about justice in such a case, when it could simply be ignored? The king would leave in two days, and the bulk of his army with him; in a week, no one in Shrewsbury would even remember the name John Allerdyce. He meant nothing to anyone here. And yet Charles was willing to lay down his own life to see justice done for a man he'd never even met.

Because he _did_ care. And Erik loved him for it, even if he could happily strangle the man himself right now.

"Charles," he sighed, "why did you come here tonight? You must have known I would only argue with you."

Charles's eyes blazed in the dim moonlight. "Then argue with me," he said passionately. "Tell me all the hundred reasons I'm wrong, call me twelve kinds of fool, prove to me that someone else in this bloody town gives a damn about what happens tomorrow! Because while I am determined to defeat him, I can't help but be aware of the fact I might die in a few short hours, and damn it, Erik, there's no one else in the world I'd rather spend--"

By that point, Erik had already taken the three strides across the room to meet him, and yanked him up into a harsh, urgent kiss. Charles immediately responded in kind, mouth hot against his, nearly biting at Erik's lips. This was nothing like the soft, almost lazy kisses they'd shared the night before; they had no more time for gentleness. Erik rarely had the patience for it in the best of circumstances, which these were decidedly not.

"You're not going to lose," he swore, nipping at Charles's neck, the line of his jaw. "I will kill him myself before he can ever land a single blow--"

"I won't lose," Charles gasped, arching up against him. "I promise, Erik--"

He had no right making such promises; Erik couldn't bear to hear it, and covered his mouth again to shut him up. Without once releasing him, Erik stagger-pushed him backward a few steps until Charles's back hit the wall. Charles hummed approvingly into his mouth, better able to brace himself there, and Erik pressed one knee between his legs, making Charles inhale sharply.

He lost track of time there, completely absorbed in Charles, in the taste of the evening's wine on his tongue and the salt along his neck, the scents of woodsmoke and the August night air on his skin, the silky feel of his hair between Erik's fingers, the heat of his body even through the fabric of his clothing. And more than that, the warm buzz of his Gift, an extraordinary sensation pulsing against Erik's mind with the rhythm of a heartbeat, a push and pull of thought and emotion that Erik would never be able to describe in words. It felt like the ocean, like waves crashing over his head, like he was drowning in it -- but _glorious_.

"Please tell me you have a bed tucked away somewhere," Charles panted, tugging at the laces of Erik's trousers. He managed a smile that landed halfway between coyness and desperation. "After all, I've got a strenuous day ahead of me, I should really get a good night's rest."

Erik managed to pull away far enough to grasp his hand and practically drag him into his bedchamber, which was just as simply furnished as the rest of the small house, but did in fact have a perfectly serviceable bed. Charles barely so much as glanced at it, being far more concerned with yanking Erik's tunic off over his head, which of course led to the divestment of other articles of clothing...but they got there eventually.

Erik paused there, looking down at him. Charles was beautiful, sprawled there naked beneath him, but the frantic _need_ in his expression tangled painfully in Erik's chest, made his breath catch. He looked as though he might fly apart into a thousand pieces, if not for the weight of Erik's body on his, anchoring him.

"We won't let him win," Erik told him seriously, pressing his hands against Charles's shoulders, solid and real. "I swear to you, Charles, you won't be alone out there tomorrow."

Charles's eyes were too bright, his touch searing. He cupped Erik's cheek in his hand and kissed him hard. "No," he breathed, and almost sounded like he believed it. "I'm not alone. Neither of us is."

* * *

Erik awoke with the dawn, the sun's rays slanting bright and hot through the open shutters of his bedchamber. He squinted against the brightness, rubbing his hand across his face. A touch on his bare shoulder brought him fully awake. Charles sat on the edge of the bed beside him, already dressed, though his brown hair was still charmingly tousled from sleep.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," he said quietly. "But I need to go. I have some preparations to make before the trial."

_The trial._ Erik's stomach clenched. But Charles looked calmer by morning than he had last night, when he'd been practically vibrating with nervous energy and desperation. He seemed more centered, somehow; at peace. Erik didn't know whether that should comfort or concern him. 

"Charles…" He couldn't quite think what to say. Or rather, there was too much he wanted to say, but he hadn't worked out the words for it yet. Instead, he asked, a little wryly: "Are you even any good with a sword?"

A smirk flickered across Charles's face. "Did you have aught to complain of last night?"

"No. But you know that's not what I mean."

"I know." The smile faded from Charles's eyes. "And yes, I can handle myself in a fight. My father...didn't have a high opinion of those who relied upon their Gifts as a crutch, especially when it came to combat. And our lands border Wales, we frequently have to defend against raiding parties. I was trained to the sword like any other lordling, never you fret." More gently, he added, "I would not have challenged him if I did not think I could win."

Erik nodded wordlessly and kissed him, refusing to think of this as goodbye.

It would not be. He would tie Remy LeBeau's sword into knots, impale him upon his own blade, before ever he let harm come to Charles.

* * *

There was no returning to sleep once Charles had gone. Erik rose and made his own preparations for the day. No use opening the workshop -- he would not have time for any customers. But he did make some small progress on one commission he had outstanding, and mused upon the question of the boar's head brooch. Would Moira still want it refashioned into a woman's ornament, now that it had linked her brother so indelibly to another man's murder? Perhaps. It could be a way of reclaiming her family's sigil for herself.

Eventually, Erik judged enough time had passed that he might make his way to the trial grounds. As he stepped out onto the Foregate, he spotted two familiar figures in black habits making their way toward him.

"The abbot gave us both leave," Brother Armando said, clasping Erik's arm in greeting. "He knows our part in uncovering the evidence that led to all this, and agrees we should be present to witness its end."

"Whatever end that might be," Henry added somewhat wretchedly. "I know that trial by combat is said to be the judgement of heaven, but how if Remy is simply the stronger fighter? Why should that absolve him?"

"It won't." Armando sounded very certain. He exchanged a grim nod with Erik. "We'll make sure of that."

Henry glanced between them. "You do realize anyone else is forbidden from interfering in the trial."

"Oh, we know," Erik said. "And I don't plan to intervene so long as Charles has it under control. But in my experience, divine justice sometimes requires a helping hand."

* * *

To the north of the city walls lay a wide open meadow, bracketed by the coils of the river Severn on either side. This was the site chosen by the king for the trial. His marshals had drawn a large square of open ground for the combat, and Captain Rhodes's Flemish mercenaries formed a loose fence around it, with their lances held crosswise. They would keep anyone outside the square from interfering in the fight, and keep the combatants from attempting flight. An inconvenience, Erik judged, but not an insurmountable one. The lances were made from wood, but tipped with steel. He could get past them if the need arose.

A crowd had formed in anticipation of the fight. Well, gossip always did spread quickly in Shrewsbury, and a trial by combat was a rare enough spectacle, especially with the King himself in attendance. Erik and the two monks made their way toward the front of the throng, close to the Flemings. Respect for the Benedictine habits eased their passage, Erik noticed with distant amusement.

The sun felt warm enough by midmorning, and would only grow more punishing as the day wore on, out in the open like this. A light wind came off the river, which helped somewhat. Erik was struck by how quiet the assembled crowd was -- not silent, of course, but all discussions kept to a low murmur of curiosity and concern. This was their new sheriff on trial. It was an ill omen for his rule of law, even if he should prevail.

The royal train processed from the castle, led by King Anthony in an impatient humor. He took the high seat set aside for him with a flourish. From the expression on his face, he was eager to have this over and done with.

Moira MacTaggert was among the king's adherents, the lone woman in a swirl of male clerics, knights, and assorted minor nobility. She wore a simple gown of pure black, a striking and somber statement. Moira intended to be noticed here this morning. Her face was pale and resolute.

"Who told her?" Erik murmured into Armando's ear.

"I did, early this morning," came the expected reply. "She deserved to stand witness."

"Good."

The two contestants arrived last, led in by Rhodes. The mercenary captain kept an impassive countenance as he retreated to his place at the king's side, but from the flicker of distaste in his eyes as he glanced at LeBeau, he had clearly come to his own judgement in this case. At Anthony's right hand, Stane simply glowered indiscriminately at all present.

Charles made his reverence to the king first, as the accuser. His calm from earlier that morning had deepened into absolute serenity, a pure acceptance of whatever might follow. Erik could _feel_ it press gently at the edges of his awareness, even though Charles did not so much as glance in his direction. In truth, Erik found it almost grating. He wasn't calm, he was _angry_. And he certainly wouldn't passively accept anything that might happen!

As LeBeau approached the square, he caught sight of Moira amongst the royal retinue and stiffened. "My lady," he said, startled and uncertain. "Should you be present for such a spectacle?"

Moira's lovely face was a mask of cold contempt. "Of course, Master LeBeau. You promised my brother clemency, and then executed him in despite of your honor. I am here to see you punished for it."

LeBeau reeled back from her words, visibly rattled, and his own obeisance to the king was rather lacking in his usual swagger. Erik would have applauded if he could. _Well done, Moira. That unbalances him from the start._

"Let us make the terms of this trial clear," King Anthony pronounced. "Charles Xavier has accused Remy LeBeau of murder and treason, and stands on his charges to prove them with his body. The only weapons permitted are swords or daggers." He looked between the two combatants with narrowed eyes. "There is also the matter of your Gifts. It is unusual for such a trial to occur between two of God's Gifted. When only one combatant is Gifted, he is forbidden from specifically using those abilities. I am inclined to uphold that ban, particularly given two Gifts so...uniquely unbalanced. But perhaps that, too, is a part of God's judgement here today."

Henry grasped Erik's arm. "Am I the only one who didn't know that Remy was Gifted?"

"I'd heard he had a soldier's Gift, but know nothing more of it," Armando remarked grimly. "We may be about to find out."

In the meantime, LeBeau was making his indignation plain. "It is by gross misuse of this man's telepathy that I am falsely accused," he said hotly. "He cannot be allowed to abuse his Gift further!"

Charles regarded him implacably. "Nor shall I. I swear upon my honor not to exercise my Gift in this contest, with immediate forfeit given should I prove false. Will you swear the same, Master LeBeau?"

"Fool," Erik hissed under his breath. "He would give up his one advantage, to a man who _has_ no honor!"

But Remy was already swearing the same, and the king nodded acceptance with a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Then it is agreed. Physical weapons only, and forfeit to either found to be using their Gifts in any fashion."

Armando rested a restraining hand on Erik's shoulder. "It would be difficult to prove, in Charles's case, should he exercise it with subtlety."

But Erik shook his head. "No, he's sworn it, and he's too damnably chivalrous to cheat. He'll stay out of Remy's head even if it kills him." He could feel the assessing glance Armando gave him sidelong, but he kept his own gaze straight ahead, on Charles within the fence of crossed lances.

King Anthony gave the signal, and the fight began.

Neither carried shields, or wore mail or any sort of protective armor. They advanced cautiously at first, each gauging the other's skill, and from his place on the sidelines, Erik did the same. He'd seen any number of soldiers in his time, fought against more than his fair share, both Gifted and otherwise. LeBeau was a natural fighter, clearly at his ease with a weapon in hand, but something about his movements seemed just a hair unbalanced. It took Erik a few minutes to place it, and then realized: he would probably appear much the same, should he be restricted from using his powers. He incorporated his Gift so instinctively into his martial style that it would feel unnatural without it.

But wouldn't Charles be equally disadvantaged? How much did he subconsciously rely upon his telepathy in a fight -- perhaps not aggressively, but to give him advance warning of a feint, guide him in how to counter that next blow, reveal unseen weaknesses in his opponent's defense?

Erik felt each clash of swords as though they were extensions of his own arm, the steel singing out to him. Against all odds, the pair were fairly evenly matched. LeBeau had more natural talent, a real flair for the art, but he liked showing off too much. He enjoyed showy swordplay that would tire him out too quickly in a contest such as this. Charles took a more workmanlike approach, but he was quick and flexible, wasting no energy, content to hold his ground on simple defense while LeBeau expended his strength on aggressive, elaborate attacks.

"Charles might well outlast him," Armando murmured. "Surely LeBeau cannot be this foolish?"

"Maybe, but you can't win on defense alone," Erik replied grimly. "He's got to attack at some point."

It was LeBeau who drew first blood, some indeterminate amount of time later. Nothing serious, a glancing cut to Charles's arm, slicing through the leather sleeve and drawing a shallow line into the skin. But Erik saw red all the same, and only Armando's firm grip on his shoulder prevented him from lashing out with his Gift.

"Do you want the Flemings to realize someone with a touch for metal is in the crowd?" he demanded in low tones. "You'll be removed from the grounds. Save it for something that _matters_, Erik!"

At least he knew Erik well enough not to warn him off intervening entirely. They both knew that if it went ill for Charles, Erik would do whatever it took to see LeBeau condemned anyway, and damn this ridiculous code of chivalry.

The fight continued. Charles got his own blow in, a gash to LeBeau's leg, no more damaging than the cut he'd taken. They continued circling one another, moving more slowly as the morning wore on and the sun grew hotter. LeBeau still led their grim dance, pushing forward in bursts of aggression, while Charles deflected and kept the balance, clearly hoping to wear him down. The grass became trampled and flattened beneath their feet.

At one point, the sun glanced off the steel of their blades at just the right angle, and LeBeau blinked and shook his head, momentarily dazzled. Catching the moment, Charles moved quickly and decisively, for once pressing his advantage, and brought his sword up under LeBeau's in a classic disarming move. But something hummed jarringly along LeBeau's blade, and Erik's sense of the metal screeched a discordant note of alarm.

LeBeau _pushed_, and tiny sparks flickered against Charles's own sword, shoving him backward.

If Erik hadn't been so attuned to the metal, he might not even have noticed it. But that _wasn't right_. Even if Charles hadn't succeeded in disarming him with that move, LeBeau should have been the one to stumble backward, in order to keep hold of his blade. Yet it was Charles who had been sent staggering, eyes widening. He managed to bring his sword back up just in time to parry LeBeau's next swift attack, but Erik could see the grim realization there.

"He's cheating," Erik growled. "LeBeau's using his Gift!"

Having once used it successfully, without drawing the king's attention, LeBeau grew emboldened. Or perhaps he was simply desperate to put an end to this fight. He lashed forward with a renewed rush of energy, and after another few minutes of frantic attacks, Erik saw those telltale sparks burst again. This time the effect was more obvious, and Charles very nearly dropped his blade, grimacing and switching hands as though it had suddenly become hot to the touch.

Armando wasted no more time. "Foul!" he cried out, voice pitched loud enough to ring out clearly over the crowd. "Foul! That was LeBeau's Gift! Foul, and forfeit!"

Henry took up the cry as well, goading the crowd, and Erik could hear Moira echoing it furiously from the king's retinue. But it would not be enough. LeBeau had heard the shouts, and knew he was out of options. He was not the sort to bow his head gracefully in defeat; this was a cornered animal, and he would draw blood.

Desperate fury contorted LeBeau's handsome features, and he redoubled his attack, throwing the full explosive weight of his Gift behind it. And Charles, damn him, would not resort to using his telepathy even now, lest he taint the trial and render it void. But Erik was done standing by.

He shoved past the line of Flemings with a violent gesture, their useless lances flying out of their hands. If they wouldn't put an end to this farce of a trial, someone else must. King Anthony was on his feet now, shouting orders; Erik ignored him. His entire focus was on Remy LeBeau, whose time had run out.

LeBeau spared a fraction of an instant to glance about him, and see that he had lost; his only hope now was escape. With a sharp, decisive movement, he slammed the point of his blade down into the ground, and the earth _shook_ as though with an explosion.

Erik was thrown from his feet onto the trampled grass. He was hardly alone in this. The Flemings had been thrown as well, only a handful managing to keep upright, and those all further away. Charles, who had been much closer to LeBeau than anyone else, sword still in hand, practically flew several feet in the air and landed heavily against the unforgiving ground, momentarily stunned. All at once, Erik recalled Alex Summers's description of the attack in the hut: _He hit something against the ground… Whatever it was, it made the earth under my feet shake, knocked me off balance._

The crack in the earthen foundations Erik had seen there, like the aftereffects of a quake.

And the sparks bursting against Charles's blade.

A lifetime of encountering and assessing unusual Gifts served Erik well now. LeBeau's powers were explosive in nature, and seemed to be bound up in whatever he could touch. Fine: then remove the objects he had at hand.

Erik pushed himself up to his knees and made a grabbing motion with his outstretched hand. LeBeau's sword flew out of his grip and skidded harmlessly into the dirt many yards distant. His eyes widened, and he gave a wordless yell in protest, but he was quick and clever even now. The soldiers were getting to their feet, starting to warily close in, and Armando was even faster. He had shifted his skin into some kind of scales and stood over Charles's prone form as though to serve as a human shield against whatever LeBeau might try next.

And try he did. He reached down to his swordbelt at his waist, where Erik abruptly noticed he had a soft cloth bag, like a coin purse, and in a swift, practiced motion, grabbed a handful of shining coins and threw them into a dancing arc around him. The coins sparked and hummed with that unnatural energy, ready to explode upon contact, and with a gesture LeBeau sent them fanning outward--

They were _silver_.

Erik caught them all easily, with barely a thought, and redirected them to burst harmlessly into the empty grass at LeBeau's feet. Then he yanked at the remaining coins in that bag and thrust them all out of LeBeau's reach, purse and all, landing right at an irate King Anthony's feet to spill out silver across the ground in front of him.

In the meantime, Armando had more or less thrown himself at LeBeau, his body shifting into something very solid and heavy to hold LeBeau firmly in place, unable to attempt any more of his tricks. Erik had no idea if LeBeau's powers might work on other people as well as inanimate objects, but even if so, it wouldn't work on Armando, whose Gift naturally adapted to anything thrown at him. He would simply absorb the energy and render it harmless.

"_Enough_," the king roared out. "Remy, you will yield!"

LeBeau struggled vainly against Armando's grip a moment more, but it was merely reflexive. He finally slumped into it and was still.

In the meantime, Charles had pulled himself upright and, abandoning his sword in the grass, made his way intently to where the purse lay, the coins spilling out of it. He dropped down to pluck out something amongst them. Not metal; Erik could not sense it.

"Master Xavier, what is it you have found?" King Anthony demanded.

Charles stood and proffered the item. He was not so close that Erik could see what it might be, and Erik knew better than to approach a king without leave, however he might wish to hasten to Charles's side now.

"A seal," Charles said, clearly enough to be heard by all present. "Such that any man of property might carry with him, of course. But the device cut into it is not Remy LeBeau's. I would not recognize his mark, but this one, I _do_ know."

This was outside of Erik's usual purview, not being a gentleman himself, but he knew enough to understand the import. A man's personal seal was his official mark in business or correspondence, carrying his sanction, honor, and reputation. For one to carry another's implied either theft and misuse, or the highest confidence of its true owner. It would enable him to carry out official business on another's behalf without question.

"Something tells me I will recognize it myself, once I wrack my memory," the king said, with a hint of sardonic humor. "But by all means enlighten us now."

"It's a particularly memorable device," Charles said. "A human skull with a diamond centered at its forehead. This is the seal of Nathaniel Essex, the Earl of Chester, and the Empress's sworn ally."

King Anthony nodded slowly, turning his gaze upon his former sheriff. "I accept this as further proof of his duplicity -- not that it was needed. Remy LeBeau, you have abjectly forfeited the field, and the judgement of heaven has spoken. You are judged guilty of murder and treason. Have you anything remaining to say for yourself?"

LeBeau looked up, then, to meet his sovereign's eyes. Astonishingly, he just smiled and shrugged, insouciant. "I gambled, your Grace," he said aloud. "I lost. What more is there to say?"

"Very well." Anthony looked at Charles. "He is yours to kill, by rights."

Charles just shook his head wearily. "I do not want him. If he must die, then let him hang, like the man he betrayed."

With one last, deep reverence to the king, he turned and walked slowly off the field, exhaustion writ large in every line of his body. And Erik, seeing that none currently marked him, all attention yet directed towards the criminal and the king, decided a strategic retreat of his own was in order -- before anyone should think to ask _how_ LeBeau's final mad attack had been foiled, or by whom.

He caught up to Charles before he reached the town gates, and Charles turned to him with a smile that was no less blinding for its weariness. They did not touch, not here, but walked side by side all the way back through the town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Gambit's choice of weapon: as far as I could find, [playing cards weren't introduced to Europe until the 14th century](https://playingcarddecks.com/blogs/all-in/history-playing-cards-modern-deck) (200+ years after this fic takes place), so it wouldn't make sense for him to have his iconic cards. Instead, I figured that what a gambler like Remy would most likely keep on his person at all times would be the coins he won and lost. This was very convenient for Erik.
> 
> Just the epilogue to go!


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a beginning.

The hanging took place in the late afternoon, shortly before the Vespers bells. Erik didn't care for such events as a matter of public spectacle, but he attended anyway. He wanted to make absolutely sure that LeBeau wouldn't have any further tricks up his sleeve, that he couldn't somehow weasel his way out of punishment at the last minute.

He didn't.

Erik turned away as soon as it was over and done with. He took no pleasure in witnessing it, only a certain grim satisfaction that justice had been served for John Allerdyce. This execution had only drawn a desultory crowd; the town of Shrewsbury had had enough of death lately. It was one week to the day since their own garrison had been hanged from the castle walls. Hopefully this would be the last of it for a good long time to come.

Obadiah Stane had presided over the execution with a forbidding countenance and military precision. Erik could not help but wonder if he had ever suspected his subordinate, if that was why Stane had been so dismissive of Henry's investigation from the start. But probably not. From what Charles had told him, the captain had been responsible for goading King Anthony into the executions of the entire garrison; but whatever other sins Stane might be guilty of, LeBeau's treason did not seem to be among them. And Stane would depart with his king on the morrow, and hopefully never set foot in this shire again. The town would soon forget him.

King Anthony had absented himself from the proceedings, electing instead to finalize his preparations for departure. Charles had been summoned to attend him along with his other vassal lords with lands in Shropshire. Those who had pledged knights and men-at-arms to Anthony's cause would now have to deliberate over their terms; some had already fulfilled their pledges in the battle of Shrewsbury, while others would commit their musters to the march onward to Gloucester, or to be retained as Shrewsbury castle's new garrison. The lords themselves would then disperse accordingly, either returning to their own manors or remaining among the king's court and traveling with him to Gloucester.

And what path would Charles take next? Having sworn himself to Anthony, would he choose to ingratiate himself further? He had proven himself with the trial, and likely earned a degree of royal favor from it. A man of intelligence and ambition could rise quickly and far after such a beginning, especially in these turbulent times. Charles was a relatively minor landowner; did he hope to expand his influence and lands? Set his sights on an earldom of his own someday, perhaps? He didn't strike Erik as being ambitious in that way, but how well did Erik know him, really? They'd only met a week ago. That was hardly any time at all.

Yet in some ways it felt like a lifetime. And more lives than theirs had been changed by the events of the past seven days.

Erik wound his way down along the familiar streets of Shrewsbury, until he reached Christopher Summers's smithy. There was one last thread to be tied up here.

Christopher was at the forge, hammering at what looked to be the blade of a new sword. Erik idly examined the metal while he waited for the man to finish. It was fine steel, and would no doubt make a strong weapon once completed. Eventually, Christopher was satisfied enough to set it aside and turn to greet him.

"You come late," Christopher said, though friendly enough. "Brother Armando from the abbey stopped in yesterday."

Of course he had. "Good. Then you know that Alex and Raven are both safely away. By tomorrow they should reach the Welsh coast, if your wife's kin stand them true."

"Aye, I don't doubt it. And I do thank you and the monks for the aid you gave them both, and all you did to avenge poor John."

Erik shrugged it off. "Raven's a clever girl, she would have done fine without us. And it's Charles Xavier who truly avenged John Allerdyce in the end."

"Perhaps. I've heard some interesting reports of that trial this morning, though." Christopher gave him a shrewd look. "They say LeBeau's sword flew clean out of his hand, as did his purse of silver." When Erik gave no response, he sighed. "But give Xavier credit where it's due, he did call the sheriff out for it. And Armando says he did right by Raven in the end, and helped Alex away with her. Not that my wife is likely to forgive him for it! For now he has deprived us of a son as well."

"It was Alex's choice," Erik said firmly. "You and Katherine raised him too well. He learned to find a cause and hold to it, and wants to prove himself on his own merits."

"Well, perhaps he shall!" Christopher shook his head, rueful but proud. "I know my own son. Shrewsbury would always have felt too small for him until he could get a taste of the wider world. God knows I had the same desire for action, at his age! If he survives it, it will settle him eventually. And I suppose the Empress could use a young man of his Gifts."

That raised one last question. "Will you remain here yourself, now that the castle holds for Anthony instead?"

"Of course," Christopher said without hesitation. "Shrewsbury is our home now, we want no other. In truth, King or Empress make little enough difference to me. It was Lord Holme I held for, and my allegiances died with him. So long as the King appoints a fairer sheriff than Cain Marko -- and even that murderer LeBeau would have been better than _him_! -- we shall do well enough here as anywhere else." He regarded Erik thoughtfully. "You seem to be making friends in high places. Have you heard aught about who our new sheriff might be?"

In truth, that was the furthest consideration from Erik's mind. "I'm afraid not. And I have no doubt you'll hear before I do, given how quickly rumors spread through the town."

A few minutes more of pleasantries followed before Erik was able to extricate himself, with Christopher promising to pass along his regards to Katherine and young Scott as well. That debt satisfied, Erik continued out of the town walls and across the bridge to the Foregate, where he followed the curve of the river Severn to the mill pond and the abbey's grace houses there.

The maidservant Anwen opened the door readily enough at his knock, and smiled to recognize him. "Master Lehnsherr, is it? Come in and be welcome, I'll fetch my mistress."

Moira emerged as composed as ever, only the faintest lines around her eyes and mouth giving any indication of how trying the day had been. "It is over, then?" He nodded, and she sank down into a chair, the only betrayal of her relief. "Good. I had meant to go myself, to witness, but…"

"There was no need," Erik said. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. I know you and LeBeau had been...friendly."

"Don't worry, I never fancied myself in love," she sighed. "Charmed by him, yes, but once I saw him for who he truly was...well, that put a swift end to anything else." She shook her head briskly. "More importantly -- Charles is well? I noticed when you followed him off the field," she added, the barest hint of a smile in her eyes. "I assume he took no serious injury?"

"Only a few cuts and bruises, and Brother Henry patched up what little needed it," he assured her. "Nothing a few days' rest won't mend."

Her lips twitched. "Well, I trust you'll ensure he gets it," she said serenely. "Rest, that is. Oh, don't look so shocked, I've known Charles for years. He's not as discreet as he thinks he is. But never mind that. Was there a particular reason you came here?"

Erik blinked a few times, still inwardly reeling, then accepted the change of subject with some relief. "The matter of your brother's brooch," he said. "Did you still wish it adapted for your own wearing? I would not like to leave a commission unfinished."

"No, and I hadn't forgotten. You gave it back to me yesterday." Moira considered it a moment, her gaze going distant, then looked back up at him. "For now, I believe I'd prefer to leave it be. If it proves too heavy for my current cloak, then perhaps I should invest in stronger cloth instead."

He inclined his head. "As you wish. For what it's worth, my lady, I think it suits you well just as it is."

"I am sorry to have cost you the commission, though! It feels most discourteous, after all you've done. Perhaps you might craft me a pair of earrings to complement the brooch instead?" She offered him a smile. "Such a bold ornament deserves fitting accompaniment."

"That I could certainly do." It would be more delicate work, but Erik enjoyed the opportunity for some creativity. And he had no doubt Moira would pay him well. "How long do you expect to remain here at the abbey, now that your business in Shrewsbury is concluded?"

She shrugged. "I have not yet finalized my plans. But my thoughts do turn to home. I'll let you know. If I do leave before you can complete the work, I'll arrange a servant to return for it." Moira got to her feet. "Thank you for stopping by, Master Lehnsherr. I do appreciate your thoughtfulness."

At the door, though, she paused. "Erik -- you did well by Raven. I was wrong to doubt you. And you were right to tell me the truth about my brother's death, difficult though it was to hear it. So please take this in the spirit of friendship." Moira bit her lip, uncharacteristically hesitant, then forged on ahead. "I've seen how Charles interacts with those who catch his fancy. He's like any other man that way, I suppose, and kinder than most -- I don't mean to imply anything ill about him. But you're...different. You _fascinate_ him, and have since well before he decided he could trust you. I've never seen him quite like this before. So please -- think carefully about whatever it is you're doing with him. You could hurt him quite badly, I think."

It was the second time in this visit she'd caught him off guard like this, and for a minute he struggled between anger at her interference and embarrassment at having been so easily read. Reining in his temper, he managed to keep his tone level as he said: "That goes both ways, you know."

"Yes," Moira said, almost gently. "I know."

* * *

Erik cut across the abbey's fields from the mill pond, following the Meole brook until it led him back to the herbarium gardens. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, hovering around the treetops. He found Henry out in the garden making best use of the last of the light.

"I suppose you have rather been neglecting the herbs of late," Erik remarked drily, looking down at him.

Henry started, dropping his trowel, then gave Erik a muted smile. "Well, we _have_ been busy. The preponderance of weeds is penance enough." He got to his feet with a sigh, absently brushing the soil from his habit. "But I guess everything will be back to normal soon enough."

He looked to the west as he said it, a little wistfully. Toward Wales. "She'll be nearing the coast by now," Erik said. "If not tonight, then likely sometime tomorrow. And from there, they'll find a ship to take them around to France."

"And safe enough, now, with none of the king's men chasing after her," Henry agreed. "Was it Remy who set them back on her trail, do you think?"

He'd been stung by the sheriff's duplicity, Erik knew. Well, so had they all been. "Likely," he said. "Especially if he was in communication with others loyal to the Earl of Chester. Cain Marko would certainly have wanted Holme's daughter silenced, lest she betray any of her father's secrets, and he would have known her for a shapeshifter."

Henry nodded, his gaze drifting westward once again.

"You could have gone with her," Erik said quietly. "You would hardly be the first young monk to think better of his vocation. What stopped you?"

Henry shrugged. "I would only have slowed them down. Do you know I've never traveled further than ten miles from Shrewsbury in my entire life? I don't speak Welsh or even much French. I'm a mediocre rider at best and I've never even _seen_ the sea, let alone set foot on a boat. And I'd make an even more rubbish soldier than I do a monk." He gave Erik a crooked smile. "Besides, I like my life here. I enjoy working in the herbarium, and I have more freedom than most of my brothers. I know my place here, and it suits me. Raven is...well, she's an extraordinary person. But she doesn't need me. And I prefer being where I'm needed."

They stood quietly for a few minutes, watching the sun sink lower behind the trees. Eventually, Erik clapped him on the shoulder, and continued onward, leaving Henry amongst his herbs.

Armando had saved a plate of supper for him at the gatehouse, so Erik stopped in there for a time, eating in companionable silence. When he was done, Armando asked, "Do you still have that coin you found at the hut where Allerdyce was killed?"

As it happened, it was still in Erik's pocket. He tugged it out and floated it over to Armando's open palm. Armando studied its unnaturally smooth face, nodding to himself.

"We had thought it was Allerdyce's Gift that melted it, or maybe even Alex's," he remarked, returning the coin to Erik. "But it was LeBeau's, wasn't it? When he flung out those coins at the end…"

"A desperate gambit," Erik agreed. "But he was panicking by then. He didn't care how much damage he did or to whom, so long as it might buy him a chance to escape."

"Lucky you were there. I would've blocked a few of them, maybe, but I could not have stopped them all." Armando shook his head. "Little explosions like that may not appear terribly frightening, but if they strike in just the wrong place…"

"It doesn't take a large hit to do a great deal of damage." Erik flipped the melted coin between his fingers, seeing Shaw's coin again, slowly pushing its way into the bastard's forehead as Armando held him perfectly still, absorbing all the energy Shaw tried to use to fight them off while that single little coin pressed inexorably onward. "Thank you for restraining LeBeau after that. He likely would have tried more tricks if you hadn't hindered him."

Armando smiled ruefully, his mind clearly going to the same place as Erik's. "Just like old times, right?"

"Remy LeBeau was no Sebastian Shaw," Erik said. He returned the coin to his own pocket. "Just a gambler with a taste for dangerous games."

Armando shook his head, but not in disagreement. "You know, he could have won that fight fairly, if he'd been smarter about it. Charles is a good enough swordsman, I don't say it would have been easy, but LeBeau was better. He didn't need to cheat."

"But he _was_ a cheater. He couldn't help himself." Erik did his best to shake off the the what-if of LeBeau gaining the upper hand in the trial, getting a lucky strike in, his blade slicing toward Charles's heart. The true memory of Charles being flung backward by that invisible force was haunting enough. "And anyway, you know I wouldn't have let that happen."

"Yes, I noticed," Armando said wryly. "You're lucky he'd already caused enough chaos that no one else did, or you might have been hanging right beside him now."

Erik grinned, knowing it had a feral edge to it, and got to his feet. "I'd like to see them try."

Armando rolled his eyes, but an affectionate smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I wouldn't! I'd just wind up cleaning up your mess, as usual."

"You have to admit you'd get bored without me." At the doorway, Erik peered out toward the town walls. Twilight had settled into the Foregate, deepening the world into shades of blue and gray, with torchlights beginning to glimmer from the castle ramparts. "Has the king's council ended yet, do you know?"

"I haven't seen any riders in the past hour, so probably not. But it's near Compline. I imagine it will be wrapping up soon."

Erik nodded. "Mind passing along a message for me?" he asked, as casually as he could. "Whenever Charles gets in, let him know I'd like a word with him, if it's not too late."

Armando just laughed. "And why would you ever think he'd bother stopping in here first?"

* * *

Despite the length of the day, Erik found himself too restless for stillness, so he cracked open the double doors to his workshop and began tinkering with his pile of scrap metal. He had no particular goal in mind. He simply enjoyed the flex and flow of his powers, shapes stretching and spinning in the empty air before him, various metals twining together and then pulling delicately apart. In the end, he wouldn't have noticed Charles's arrival at all, were it not for the soft tickle of _enjoyment_ fizzing against the edges of his mind, like a hundred little bubbles bursting.

"That's beautiful," Charles said from the doorway.

Erik carefully bundled the metals together into a large, unwieldy clump, then set them down to rest atop the nearest workbench. "They're just scraps."

"Not the metal itself. The way you work with it." Charles stepped inside now, drawing the door shut quietly behind him. "I don't believe I've ever truly seen you flex your powers just for the sheer pleasure of it before."

"Well, you caught me on a busy week," Erik said drily.

Charles laughed and crossed the room toward him. He moved a little stiffly, but there didn't seem to be any other lingering effects of the morning's fight. After a moment's consideration, he hopped up to sit on the workbench itself, wincing as he settled himself. "It has been, at that! Good God, has it really only been seven days since the battle? It feels as though I've been here for months already."

"Only a week," Erik agreed. He leaned back against the bench himself, not quite close enough to touch, and folded his arms across his chest. "Though certainly a memorable one. But I've found you Englishmen to be a resilient lot. Before long, it will be as if there had never been a siege at all."

"I can't tell if you believe that's a good thing or not." Charles eyed him sidelong. "How long _have_ you been making your home here? I don't believe you've ever said."

Erik counted the seasons backward in his head. "About four years now. A little more -- it was spring when we arrived."

"You and Armando?"

Erik inclined his head with a faint smile. "I had led him halfway across the world in pursuit of my own ends. Once that business was concluded, it seemed only fair that I should follow him instead. And he chose to join the Benedictine Order here. So here I remained." He braced his hands against the bench, relaxing further. "You were right when you said I didn't seem to stay in any one place for long. But that was...before." He hesitated, then met Charles's eyes directly. "I've not yet told you about Sebastian Shaw."

"No." Charles's voice was soft. "Not as such, though I believe I can guess somewhat. He was the _business_ you and Armando concluded together?"

"He was a crusader," Erik said. "He led the mob that burned down my family's synagogue in Cologne when I was a child. And he was an avid…_collector_ of the Gifted. In a very real way, he forged me into the man I was. A weapon." He lifted a hand, and a globe of pure steel emerged from the heap of scrap metal, spinning slowly in the air before them. "One I'm only gradually learning how to reforge."

Charles shifted over slightly, enough that their hips bumped on the bench. "You're so much more than what he made of you, Erik."

Something in his tone made Erik's throat ache. "And what do you know about me?"

"Quite a bit," Charles said, lips quirking into a crooked smile as he watched the metal spin. "But I would very much like to learn more."

He reached out a hand, palm up, and Erik let the steel globe settle into it. Charles turned it over slowly in his hands, and Erik could feel the metal warm to Charles's touch as though it were his own skin. "And how fares the king?" he asked, a little roughly.

If the apparent change of subject caught Charles by surprise, he gave no sign of it. "Impatient to leave Shrewsbury behind," he replied. "As I imagine much of the town is to see him go."

"Most likely." Erik studied Charles's face for any indication of what he might be thinking. But telepathy only went both ways when Charles wanted it to, and he kept his own gaze fixed upon the globe. Erik tried to keep his tone nonchalant as he asked, "And will you be going on to Gloucester with him?"

"I will not." His tone was unreadable.

"Back to your manor at Maesbury, then?" That was probably the best Erik could hope for. He hadn't traveled up that way himself, but he knew it lay about fifteen or twenty miles to the northeast of Shrewsbury, perhaps half a day's ride by good roads. Distant enough, but still within reach, should Charles care to make the effort. Erik would just have to make it worth his while.

"At some point, yes, I do have responsibilities there." Charles did meet his eyes then. There was a guarded sort of hope in them, and when he offered the steel globe back to Erik, their fingers brushed over the face of it. "But the king did make me a certain offer. You see, I seem to have robbed him of a sheriff. And that vacancy must needs be filled, especially with Chester likely to stir up trouble at our northern border."

Erik breathed out slowly, setting the metal aside on the bench. "And I suppose his Grace favors the notion of having his own telepath in place to counter another."

"He does indeed." Charles chuckled a little at that, shaking his head. "For all that Anthony claimed to be listening when I explained Nathaniel Essex to him, I do not think he truly _heard_ me. He thinks all telepaths are like the Empress, and underestimates the threat that the Earl of Chester poses. I hope you haven't destroyed that helmet yet -- we may have need of it in the months to come!"

"_We_," Erik echoed. "So you do mean to take the king up on his offer?"

Charles laid a tentative hand on Erik's arm, eyes searching. "Frankly, if anyone deserves to be appointed sheriff after this whole business, it's _you_. It's only your lack of rank that prevents it. Would you resent me if I did take it?"

Ridiculous man. "Charles, there is no one else in this country I would even begin to trust with that responsibility. And you have earned it, in a hundred different ways. You must accept the king's offer."

"But Shrewsbury is _your_ home, Erik," Charles pressed on. "If you don't want me here, if you're at all uncomfortable with the idea of me in that position… Look, I don't give a damn about the king, or what I have or haven't earned. Do _you_ want me to stay?"

Of all the foolish questions to ask. Had Erik really once thought that Charles was _clever_? He huffed out an exasperated sigh and stood so that he was directly in front of Charles, Erik's legs bracketing his, effectively trapping him in place on the bench as he caught Charles's face in both his hands and kissed him firmly. Gratifyingly, Charles melted into it at once, wrapping his arms around Erik's waist and tugging him in closer. Erik had only meant to make a point, but found that once they started along such paths, it was rather difficult to pull away.

"And here I thought you could read my mind," he murmured against Charles's lips.

"I can," Charles admitted, slipping his hands up under the hem of Erik's shirt. "But I'd rather hear you say it." He drew back just enough to be able to meet Erik's eyes. His own were intently serious. "Ask me to stay, Erik, and I will."

In a way, it was a sort of madness. A week ago, Erik had meant nothing more to Charles than a potential means to an end, and Erik hadn't trusted him any further than he could throw him. Charles's Gift was stronger than anyone could ever feel comfortable with, and he had a tendency to regard other people as game pieces to be carefully placed across a board of his own devising; Erik might enjoy the game in spite of himself, but he couldn't help but be wary of it. And his life in England was tenuous in a way Charles, for all his telepathy, would never truly understand; striking up a relationship with another man would only make it more so. A lord might do as he pleased, in bed or out of it, with few repercussions. Erik would have to be more circumspect lest he lose some of the standing he had with abbey and town. 

And beyond their own relationship, there was a malicious power growing in Chester that could make this civil war far worse, and Shrewsbury stood directly in Nathaniel Essex's path to London and the throne. If Erik possessed any wisdom at all, he'd be packing his bags and setting off himself, and leave Charles behind to make his own decisions.

Well, Erik had never claimed to be wise. These were uncertain times no matter where he might go, and he'd made a home here. So best snatch up what brightness he could, and grasp it tightly, for however long as it was his to hold.

"Stay," Erik said, and _felt_ Charles's warm smile curving along his own lips, his Gift unfurling incandescently against Erik's mind like iron heated by the forge. "Stay with me."

And in the morning, Charles did.


End file.
